HEART  OF  MAN 


BY 

GEORGE  EDWARD  WOODBERRY 


"  Deep  in  the  general  heart  of  men  " 

—  WOBDSWOBTH 


Nefo  ffork 
THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON :  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 
1901 

All  riyhtt  reicrved 

ftB  1908 


COPYRIGHT,  1899, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped  March,  1899.     Reprinted  July, 
1901. 
C  V  •   .-•  i       t 


J.  8.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  Si  Smith 
Norwood  Maes.  U.S.A. 


2T0  tlje  JKemotg  of 
EUGENE  MONTGOMERY 

MY  FRIEND 

DEAR  WAS  HIS  PRAISE,  AND  PLEASANT  'T  WERE  TO  ME, 
ON  WHOSE  FAR  GRAVE  TO-NIGHT  THE  DEEP  SNOWS  DRIFT; 

IT  NEEDS  NOT  NOW;  TOGETHER  WE  SHALL  SEE 
HOW  HIGH  CHRIST'S  LILIES  O'ER  MAN'S  LAURELS  LIFT. 

FEBRUARY  13,  1899. 


TS 


PREFACE 

OF  the  papers  contained  in  this  volume 
"Taormina"  was  published  in  the  Century 
Magazine  ;  the  others  are  new.  The  intention 
of  the  author  was  to  illustrate  how  poetry,  poli- 
tics, and  religion  are  the  flowering  of  the  same 
human  spirit,  and  have  their  feeding  roots  in 
a  common  soil,  "deep  in  the  general  heart  of 
men." 

COLUMBIA  COLLEGE, 
February  22,  1899. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

TAORMINA 1 

A   NEW   DEFENCK   OF   POETRY 73 

DEMOCRACY 211 

THE   RIDE   ....  263 


TAORMINA 


TAORMINA 


WHAT  should  there  be  in  the  glimmering 

lights  of  a  poor  fishing-  village  to  fascinate  me  ? 

Far  below,  a  mile  perhaps,  I  behold  them  in 

the  darkness  and  the  storm  like  some  phospho- 

rescence of  the  beach  ;  I  see  the  pale  tossing  of 

the  surf  beside  them;  I   hear   the  continuous 

roar  borne  up  and  softened  about  these  heights  ; 

and  this  is   night  at   Taormina.     There   is   a 

weirdness   in   the  scene  —  the  feeling  without 

the  reality  of  mystery  ;  and  at  evening,  I  know 

W      not  why,  I  cannot  sleep  without  stepping  upon 

^       the  terrace  or  peering  through  the  panes  to  see 

^       those  lights.     At  morning  the  charm  has  flown 

<j       from   the   shore  to  the  further  heights  above 

me.     I  glance  at  the  vast  banks  of  southward- 

lying  cloud  that  envelop  Etna,  like  deep  fog 

upon  the  ocean  ;  and  then,  inevitably,  my  eyes 

seek   the   double   summit   of  the    Taorminian 

mountain,  rising  nigh  at  hand  a  thousand  feet, 

3 


4  HEART  OF  MAN 

almost  sheer,  less  than  half  a  mile  westward. 
The  nearer  height,  precipice-faced,  towers  full 
in  front  with  its  crowning  ruined  citadel,  and 
discloses,  just  below  the  peak,  on  an  arm  of  rock 
toward  its  right,  a  hermitage  church  among  the 
heavily  hanging  mists.  The  other  horn  of  the 
massive  hill,  somewhat  more  remote,  behind  and 
to  the  old  castle's  left,  exposes  on  its  slightly 
loftier  crest  the  edge  of  a  hamlet.  It,  too,  is 
cloud- wreathed — the  lonely  crag  of  Mola.  Over 
these  hilltops,  I  know,  mists  will  drift  and 
touch  all  day  ;  and  often  they  darken  threaten- 
ingly, and  creep  softly  down  the  slopes,  and 
fill  the  next-lying  valley,  and  roll,  and  lift 
again,  and  reveal  the  flank  of  Monte  d'Oro 
northward  on  the  far-reaching  range.  As  I 
was  walking  the  other  day,  with  one  of  these 
floating  showers  gently  blowing  in  my  face 
down  this  defile,  I  noticed,  where  the  mists 
hung  in  fragments  from  the  cloud  out  over  the 
gulf,  how  like  air-shattered  arches  they  groined 
the  profound  ravine  ;  and  thinking  how  much 
of  the  romantic  charm  which  delights  lovers  of 
the  mountains  and  the  sea  springs  from  such 
Gothic  moods  of  nature,  I  felt  for  a  moment 
something  of  the  pleasure  of  recognition  in 


TAORMINA  6 

meeting  with  this   northern  and  familiar  ele- 
ment in  the  Sicilian  landscape. 

One  who  has  grown  to  be  at  home  with  na- 
ture cannot  be  quite  a  stranger  anywhere  on 
earth.  In  new  lands  1  find  the  poet's  old  do- 
main. It  is  not  only  from  the  land-side  that 
these  intimations  of  old  acquaintance  come. 
When  my  eyes  leave,  as  they  will,  the  near 
girdle  of  rainy  mountain  tops,  and  range  home 
at  last  upon  the  sea,  something  familiar  is  there 
too,  —  that  which  I  have  always  known,  —  but 
marvellously  transformed  and  heightened  in 
beauty  and  power.  Such  sudden  glints  of  sun- 
shine in  the  offing  through  unseen  rents  of 
heaven,  as  brilliant  as  in  mid-ocean,  I  have  be- 
held a  thousand  times,  but  here  they  remind 
me  rather  of  cloud-lights  on  far  western  plains ; 
and  where  have  I  seen  those  still  tracts  of 
changeful  colour,  iridescent  under  the  silvery 
vapours  of  noon ;  or,  when  the  weather  freshens 
and  darkens,  those  whirlpools  of  pure  emerald 
bright  in  the  gray  expanse  of  storm?  They 
seem  like  memories  of  what  has  been,  made 
fairer.  One  recurring  scene  has  the  same  fas- 
cination for  my  eyes  as  the  fishers'  lights.  It 
is  a  simple  picture  :  only  an  arm  of  mist  thrust 


6  HEART  OF  MAN 

ing  out  from  yonder  lowland  by  the  little  cape, 
and  making  a  near  horizon,  where,  for  half  an 
hour,  the  waves  break  with  great  dashes  of 
purple  and  green,  deep  and  angry,  against  the 
insubstantial  mole.  All  day  I  gaze  on  these 
sights  of  beauty  until  it  seems  that  nature  her- 
self has  taken  on  nobler  forms  forever  more. 
When  the  mountain  storin  beats  the  pane  at 
midnight,  or  the  distant  lightnings  awake  me 
in  the  hour  before  dawn,  I  can  forget  in  what 
climate  I  am  ;  but  the  oblivion  is  conscious, 
and  half  a  memory  of  childhood  nights :  in  an 
instant  comes  the  recollection,  "  I  am  on  the 
coasts,  and  these  are  the  couriers,  of  Etna." 

The  very  rain  is  strange :  it  is  charged  with 
obscure  personality;  it  is  the  habitation  of  a 
new  presence,  a  storm-genius  that  I  have  never 
known  ;  it  is  born  of  Etna,  whence  all  things 
here  have  being  and  draw  nourishment.  It  is 
not  rain,  but  the  rain-cloud,  spread  out  over  the 
valleys,  the  precipices,  the  sounding  beaches, 
the  ocean-plain  ;  it  is  not  a  storm,  but  a  season. 
It  does  not  rise  with  the  moist  Hyades,  or  ride 
with  cloudy  Orion  in  the  Mediterranean  night ; 
it  does  not  pass  like  Atlantic  tempests  on  great 
world-currents :  it  remains.  Its  home  is  upon 


Etna  ;  thence  it  comes  and  thither  it  returns  ; 
it  gathers  and  disperses,  lightens  and  darkens, 
blows  and  is  silent,  and  though  it  suffer  the 
clear  north  wind,  or  the  west,  to  divide  its  veils 
with  heaven,  again  it  draws  the  folds  together 
about  its  abode.  It  obeys  only  Etna,  who  sends 
it  forth ;  then  with  clouds  and  thick  darkness 
the  mountain  hides  its  face  :  it  is  the  Sicilian 
winter. 

II 

But  Etna  does  not  withdraw  continuously 
from  its  children  even  in  this  season.  On  the 
third  day,  at  farthest,  I  was  told  it  would  bring 
back  the  sun  ;  and  I  was  not  deceived.  Two 
days  it  was  closely  wrapped  in  impenetrable 
gray;  but  the  third  morning,  as  I  threw  open 
my  casement  and  stepped  out  upon  the  terrace, 
I  saw  it,  like  my  native  winter,  expanding  its 
broad  flanks  under  the  double  radiance  of 
dazzling  clouds  spreading  from  its  extreme 
summit  far  out  and  upward,  and  of  the  snow- 
fields  whose  long  fair  drifts  shone  far  down  the 
sides.  Villages  and  groves  were  visible,  cloth- 
ing all  the  lower  zone,  and  between  lay  the 
plain.  It  seemed  near  in  that  air,  but  it  is 


8  HEART  OF  MAN 

twelve  miles  away.  From  the  sea-dipping  base 
to  the  white  cone  the  slope  measures  more  than 
twenty  miles,  and  as  many  more  conduct  the 
eye  downward  to  the  western  fringe  —  a  vast 
bulk ;  yet  one  does  not  think  of  its  size  as  he 
gazes  ;  so  large  a  tract  the  eye  takes  in,  but  no 
more  realizes  than  it  does  the  distance  of  the 
stars.  High  up,  forests  peer  through  the  ribbed 
snows,  and  extinct  craters  stud  the  frozen  scene 
with  round  hollow  mounds  innumerable.  A 
thousand  features,  but  it  remains  one  mighty 
mountain.  How  natural  it  seems  for  it  to  be 
sublime  !  It  is  the  peer  of  the  sea  and  of  the 
sky.  All  day  it  flashed  and  darkened  under 
the  rack,  and  I  rejoiced  in  the  sight,  and  knew 
why  Pindar  called  it  the  pillar  of  heaven ;  and 
at  night  it  hooded  itself  once  more  with  the 
winter  cloud. 

Ill 

Would  you  see  this  land  as  I  see  it  ?  Come 
then,  since  Etna  gives  a  fair,  pure  morning, 
up  over  the  shelving  bank  to  the  great  eastern 
spur  of  Taormina,  where  stood  the  hollow 
theatre,  now  in  ruins,  and  above  it  the  small 
temple  with  which  the  Greeks  surmounted  the 


TAORMINA  9 

highest  point.  It  is  such  a  spot  as  they  often 
chose  for  their  temples  ;  but  none  ever  com- 
manded a  more  noble  prospect.  The  far-shin- 
ing sea,  four  or  five  hundred  feet  below,  washes 
the  narrow,  precipitous  descent,  and  on  each 
hand  is  disclosed  the  whole  of  that  side  of 
Sicily  which  faces  the  rising  sun.  To  the  left 
and  northward  are  the  level  straits,  with  the 
Calabrian  mountains  opposite,  thinly  sown  with 
light  snow,  as  far  as  the  Cape  of  Spartivento, 
distinctly  seen,  though  forty  miles  away  ;  in 
front  expands  the  open  sea  ;  straight  to  the 
south  runs  the  indented  coast,  bay  and  beach, 
point  after  point,  to  where,  sixty  miles  distant, 
the  great  blue  promontory  of  Syracuse  makes 
far  out.  On  the  land-side  Etna  fills  the  south 
with  its  lifted  snow-fields,  now  smoke-plumed 
at  the  languid  cone  ;  and  thence,  though  linger- 
ingly,  the  eye  ranges  nearer  over  the  interven- 
ing plain  to  the  well-wooded  ridge  of  Castiglione, 
and,  next,  to  the  round  solitary  top  of  Monte 
Maestra,  with  its  long  shoreward  descent,  and 
comes  to  rest  on  the  height  of  Taormina  over- 
head, with  its  hermitage  of  Santa  Maria  della 
Rocca,  its  castle,  and  Mola.  Yet  further  off, 
at  the  head  of  the  defile,  looms  the  barren  sum- 


10  HEART   OF   MAN 

mit  of  Monte  Venere,  with  Monte  d'Oro  and 
other  hills  in  the  foreground,  and  northward, 
peak  after  peak,  travels  the  close  Messina 
range. 

A  landscape  of  sky,  sea,  plain,  and  moun- 
tains, great  masses  majestically  grouped,  grand 
in  contour  !  Yet  to  call  it  sublime  does  not 
render  the  impression  it  makes  upon  the  soul. 
Sublime,  indeed,  it  is  at  times,  and  dull  were 
he  whose  heart  from  hour  to  hour  awe  does 
not  visit  here  ;  but  constantly  the  scene  is 
beautiful,  and  yields  that  delight  which  dwells 
unwearied  with  the  soul.  One  may  be  seldom 
touched  to  the  exaltation  which  sublimity  im- 
plies, but  to  take  pleasure  in  loveliness  is  the 
habit  of  one  who  lives  as  heaven  made  him  ; 
and  what  characterizes  this  landscape  and  sets 
it  apart  is  the  permanence  of  its  beauty,  its 
perpetual  and  perfect  charm  through  every 
change  of  light  and  weather,  and  in  every 
quarter  of  its  heaven  and  earth,  felt  equally 
whether  the  eye  sweeps  the  great  circuit  with 
its  vision,  or  pauses  on  the  nearer  features,  for 
they,  too,  are  wonderfully  composed.  This  hill 
of  my  station  falls  down  for  half  a  mile  with 
broken  declivities,  and  then  becomes  the  Cape 


TAORMINA  11 

of  Taormina,  and  takes  its  steep  plunge  into 
the  sea.  Yonder  picturesque  peninsula  to  its 
left,  diminished  by  distance  and  strongly  re- 
lieved on  the  purple  waves,  is  the  Cape  of 
Sant'  Andrea,  and  beside  it  a  cluster  of  small 
islands  lies  nearer  inshore.  On  the  other  side, 
to  the  right  of  our  own  cape,  shines  our  port, 
with  Giardini,  the  village  of  my  fishers'  lights, 
the  beach  with  its  boats,  and  the  white  main 
road  winding  in  the  narrow  level  between  the 
bluffs  and  the  sands.  The  port  is  guarded  on 
the  south  by  the  peninsula  of  Schiso,  where 
ancient  Naxos  stood ;  and  just  beyond,  the 
river  Alcantara  cuts  the  plain  and  flows  to  the 
sea.  At  the  other  extremity,  northward  of 
Sant'  Andrea,  is  the  cove  of  Letojanni,  with  its 
village,  and  then,  perhaps  eight  miles  away, 
the  bold  headland  of  Sant'  Alessio  closes  the 
shore  view  with  a  mass  of  rock  that  in  former 
times  completely  shut  off  the  land  approach 
hither,  there  being  no  passage  over  it,  and 
none  around  it  except  by  the  strip  of  sand 
when  the  sea  was  quiet.  All  this  ground,  with 
its  several  villages,  from  Sant'  Alessio  to  the 
Alcantara,  and  beyond  into  the  plain,  was 
anciently  the  territory  of  Taormina. 


12  HEART  OF  MAN 

The  little  city  itself  lies  on  its  hill,  between 
the  bright  shore  and  the  gray  old  castle,  on  a 
crescent-like  terrace  whose  two  horns  jut  out 
into  the  air  like  capes.  The  northern  one  of 
these  is  my  station,  the  site  of  the  old  temple 
and  the  amphitheatre ;  the  southern  one  op- 
posite shows  the  fagade  of  the  Dominican  con- 
vent ;  and  the  town  circles  between,  possibly 
a  mile  from  spur  to  spur.  Here  and  there  long 
broken  lines  of  the  ancient  wall,  black  with 
age,  stride  the  hillside.  A  round  Gothic  tower, 
built  as  if  for  warfare,  a  square  belfry,  a  ruined 
gateway,  stand  out  among  the  humble  roofs. 
Gardens  of  orange  and  lemon  trees  gleam  like 
oblong  parks,  principally  on  the  upper  edge 
toward  the  great  rock.  If  you  will  climb,  as  I 
have  done,  the  craggy  plateau  close  by,  which 
overhangs  the  theatre  and  obstructs  the  view 
of  the  extreme  end  of  the  town  at  this  point, 
you  will  see  from  its  level  face,  rough  with  the 
plants  of  the  prickly-pear,  a  cross  on  an  emi- 
nence just  below,  and  the  gate  toward  Messina. 

The  face  of  the  country  is  bare.  Here  be- 
neath, where  the  main  ravine  of  Taormina  cuts 
into  the  earth  between  the  two  spurs  of  the 
city,  are  terraces  of  fruit  trees  and  vegetables, 


TAORMINA  18 

and,  wherever  the  naked  rock  permits,  similar 
terraces  are  seen  on  the  castle  hill  and  every 
less  steep  slope,  looking  as  if  they  would  slide 
off.  Almond  and  olive  trees  cling  and  climb 
all  over  the  hillsides,  but  their  boughs  do  not 
clothe  the  country.  It  is  gray  to  look  at,  be- 
cause of  the  masses  of  natural  rock  everywhere 
cropping  out,  and  also  from  the  substructure  of 
the  terraces,  which,  seen  from  below,  present 
banks  of  the  same  gray  stone.  The  only  colour 
is  given  by  the  fan-like  plants  of  the  prickly- 
pear,  whose  flat,  thick-lipped,  pear-shaped 
leaves,  stuck  with  thorns,  and  often  extruding 
their  reddish  fruit  from  the  edge,  lend  a  dull 
green  to  the  scene.  This  plant  grows  every- 
where, like  wild  bush,  to  a  man's  height,  cover- 
ing the  otherwise  infertile  soil,  and  the  goats 
crop  it.  A  closer  view  shows  patches  of  wild 
candytuft  and  marigolds,  like  those  at  my  feet, 
and  humble  purple  and  blue  blossoms  hang 
from  crannies  or  run  over  the  stony  turf ;  but 
these  are  not  strong  enough  to  be  felt  in  the 
prevalent  tones.  The  blue  of  ocean,  the  white 
of  Etna,  the  gray  of  Taormina — this  is  the 
scene. 

Three  ways  connect  the  town  with  the  lower 


14  HEART  OF   MAN 

world.  The  modern  carriage  road  runs  from 
the  Messina  gate,  and,  quickly  dropping  behind 
the  northern  spur,  winds  in  great  serpentine 
loops  between  the  Carnpo  Santo  below  and 
old  wayside  tombs,  Roman  and  Arabic,  above, 
until  it  slowly  opens  on  the  southern  outlook, 
and,  after  two  miles  of  tortuous  courses  above 
the  lovely  coves,  comes  out  on  the  main  road 
along  the  coast.  The  second  way  starts  from 
the  other  end  of  the  town,  the  gate  toward 
Etna,  and  goes  down  more  precipitously  along 
the  outer  flank  of  the  southern  spur,  with  Mola 
(here  shifted  to  the  other  side  of  the  castle  hill) 
closing  the  deep  ravine  behind  ;  and  at  last  it 
empties  into  the  torrent  of  Selina,  in  whose  bed 
it  goes  on  to  Giardini.  The  third,  or  short 
way,  leaps  down  the  great  hollow  of  the  spurs, 
and  yet  keeps  to  a  ridge  between  the  folds  of 
the  ravine  which  it  discloses  on  each  side, 
with  here  and  there  a  coutadino  cutting  rock 
on  the  steep  hillsides,  or  a  sportsman  wander- 
ing with  his  dog ;  or  often  at  twilight,  from 
some  coign  of  vantage,  you  may  see  the  goats 
trooping  home  across  the  distant  sands  by  the 
sea.  It  debouches  through  great  limestone 
quarries  on  the  main  road.  There,  seen  from 


TAORMINA  16 

below,  Taormina  comes  out  —  a  cape,  a  town, 
and  a  hill.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  long,  steep,  broken 
ridge,  shaped  like  a  wedge  ;  one  end  of  the 
broad  face  dips  into  the  sea,  the  other,  high 
on  land,  exposes  swelling  bluffs ;  its  back  bears 
the  town,  its  point  lifts  the  castle. 

This  is  the  Taonninian  land.  What  a  quie- 
tude hangs  over  it !  How  poor,  how  mean,  how 
decayed  the  little  town  now  looks  amid  all  this 
silent  beauty  of  enduring  nature  !  It  could  not 
have  been  always  so.  This  theatre  at  my  feet, 
hewn  in  the  living  rock,  flanked  at  each  end 
by  great  piers  of  massive  Roman  masonry, 
and  showing  broken  columns  thick  strewn  in 
the  midst  of  the  broad  orchestra,  tells  of  an- 
cient splendour  and  populousness.  The  narrow 
stage  still  stands,  with  nine  columns  in  posi- 
tion in  two  groups  ;  part  are  shattered  half-way 
up,  part  are  yet  whole,  and  in  the  gap  be- 
tween the  groups  shines  the  lovely  sea  with 
the  long  southern  coast,  set  in  the  beauty  of 
these  ruins  as  in  a  frame.  Here  Attic  trage- 
dies were  once  played,  and  Roman  gladiators 
fought.  The  enclosure  is  large,  much  over  a 
hundred  yards  in  diameter.  It  held  many 
thousands.  Whence  came  the  people  to  fill 


16  HEART  OF  MAN 

it  ?  I  noticed  by  the  roadside,  as  I  came  up, 
Saracenic  tombs.  I  saw  in  the  first  square  I 
entered  those  small  Norman  windows,  with  the 
lovely  pillars  and  the  round  arch.  On  the 
ancient  church  I  have  observed  the  ornamen- 
tation and  mouldings  of  Byzantine  art.  The 
Virgin  with  her  crown,  over  the  fountain,  was 
paltry  enough,  but  I  saw  that  this  was  origi- 
nally a  mermaid's  statue.  A  water-clock  here, 
a  bath  there ;  in  all  quarters  I  come  on  some 
slight,  poor  relics  of  other  ages ;  and  always  in 
the  faces  of  the  people,  where  every  race  seems 
to  have  set  its  seal,  I  see  the  ruins  of  time. 
These  echoes  are  not  all  of  far-off  things.  That 
lookout  below  was  a  station  of  English  can- 
non, I  am  told ;  and  the  bluff  over  Giardini, 
beyond  the  torrent,  takes  its  name  from  the 
French  tents  pitched  there  long  ago.  The 
old  walls  can  be  traced  for  five  miles,  but 
now  the  circuit  is  barely  two.  I  wonder,  as 
I  go  down  to  my  room  in  the  Casa  Timeo, 
what  was  the  past  of  this  silent  town,  now  so 
shrunken  from  its  ancient  limits ;  and  who,  I 
ask  myself,  was  Timeo  ? 


TAORMINA  17 

IV 

I  thought  when  I  first  saw  the  inaccessi- 
bility of  this  mountain-keep  that  I  should 
have  no  walks  except  upon  the  carriage  road ; 
but  I  find  there  are  paths  innumerable.  Leap 
the  low  walls  where  I  will,  I  come  on  unsus- 
pected ways  broad  enough  for  man  and  beast. 
They  run  down  the  hillsides  in  all  directions, 
and  are  ever  dividing  as  they  descend,  like 
the  branching  streams  of  a  waterfall.  Some 
are  rudely  paved,  and  hemmed  by  low  walls  ; 
others  are  mere  footways  on  the  natural  rock 
and  earth,  often  edging  precipices,  and  open- 
ing short  cross-cuts  in  the  most  unexpected 
places,  not  without  a  suggestion  of  peril,  to 
make  eye  and  foot  alert,  and  to  infuse  a  cer- 
tain wild  pleasure  into  the  exercise.  The  mul- 
tiplicity of  these  paths  is  a  great  boon  to  the 
lover  of  beauty,  for  here  one  charm  of  Italian 
landscape  exists  in  perfection.  Every  few  mo- 
ments the  scene  rearranges  itself  in  new  com- 
binations, as  on  the  Riviera  or  at  Amalfi,  and 
makes  an  endless  succession  of  lovely  pictures. 
The  infinite  variety  of  these  views  is  not  to  be 
imagined  unless  it  has  been  witnessed  ;  and 


18  HEART  OF  MAN 

besides  the  magic  wrought  by  mere  change 
of  position,  there  is  also  a  constant  transfor- 
mation of  tone  and  colour  from  hour  to  hour, 
as  the  lights  and  shadows  vary,  and  from  day 
to  day,  with  the  unsettled  weather. 

Yet  who  could  convey  to  black-and-white 
speech  the  sense  of  beauty  which  is  the  better 
part  of  my  rambles?  It  is  only  to  say  that 
here  I  went  up  and  down  on  the  open  hill- 
sides, and  there  I  followed  the  ridges  or  kept 
the  cliff-line  above  the  fair  coves;  that  now  I 
dropped  down  into  the  vales,  under  the  shade 
of  olive  and  lemon  branches,  and  wound  by 
the  gushing  streams  through  the  orchards.  In 
every  excursion  I  make  some  discovery,  and 
bring  home  some  golden  store  for  memory. 
Yesterday  I  found  the  olive  slopes  over  Leto- 
janni  —  beautiful  old  gnarled  trees,  such  as  I 
have  never  seen  except  where  the  nightingales 
sing  by  the  eastern  shore  of  Spezzia.  I  did 
not  doubt  when  I  was  told  that  these  orchards 
yield  the  sweetest  oil  in  the  world.  It  was 
the  lemon  harvest,  and  everywhere  were  piles 
of  the  pale  yellow  fruit  heaped  like  apples 
under  the  slender  trees,  with  a  gatherer  here 
and  there ;  for  this  is  always  a  landscape  of 


TAORMINA.  19 

solitary  figures.  To-day  I  found  the  little 
beach  of  San  Nicolo,  not  far  from  the  same 
place.  I  kept  inland,  going  down  the  hollow 
by  the  Campo  Santo,  where  there  is  a  cool, 
gravelly  stream  in  a  dell  that  is  like  a  nook 
in  the  Berkshire  hills,  and  then  along  the 
upland  on  the  skirts  of  Monte  d'Oro,  till  by 
a  sharp  turn  seaward  I  came  out  through  a 
marble  quarry  where  men  were  working  with 
what  seemed  slow  implements  on  the  gray  or 
party-coloured  stone.  I  passed  through  the 
rather  silent  group,  who  stopped  to  look  at 
me,  and  a  short  distance  beyond  I  crossed  the 
main  road,  and  went  down  by  a  stream  to  the 
shore.  I  found  it  strewn  with  seaside  rock, 
as  a  hundred  other  beaches  are,  but  none  with 
rocks  like  these.  They  were  marble,  red  or 
green,  or  shot  with  variegated  hues,  with 
many  a  soft  gray,  mottled  or  wavy-lined ;  and 
the  sea  had  polished  them.  Very  lovely  they 
were,  and  shone  where  the  low  wave  gleamed 
over  them.  I  had  wondered  at  the  profusion 
of  marbles  in  the  Italian  churches,  but  I  had 
not  thought  to  find  them  wild  on  a  lonely 
Sicilian  beach.  Once  or  twice  already  I  had 
seen  a  block  rosy  in  the  torrent-beds,  and  it 


20  HEART  OF  MAN 

had  seemed  a  rare  sight ;  but  here  the  whole 
shore  was  piled  and  inlaid  with  the  beautiful 
stone. 

I  have  learned  now  that  Taormina  is  famous 
for  these  marbles.  Over  thirty  varieties  were 
sent  to  the  Vienna  Exhibition,  and  they  won 
the  prize.  I  got  this  information  from  the 
keeper  of  the  Communal  Library,  with  whom 
I  have  made  friends.  He  recalls  to  my  mem- 
ory the  ship  that  Hieron  of  Syracuse  gave  to 
Ptolemy,  wonderful  for  its  size.  It  had 
twenty  banks  of  rowers,  three  decks,  and 
space  to  hold  a  library,  a  gymnasium,  gardens 
with  trees  in  them,  stables,  and  baths,  and 
towers  for  assault,  and  it  was  provided  by 
Archimedes  with  many  ingenious  mechanical 
devices.  The  wood  of  sixty  ordinary  galleys 
was  required  for  its  construction.  I  describe 
it  because  its  architect,  Filea,  was  a  Taormin- 
ian  by  birth,  and  esteemed  in  his  day  second 
only  to  Archimedes  in  his  skill  in  mechanics  ; 
and  in  lining  the  baths  of  this  huge  galley  he 
used  these  beautiful  Taorminian  marbles.  My 
friend  the  librarian  told  me  also,  with  his 
Sicilian  burr,  of  the  wine  of  Taormina,  the 
Eugensean,  which  was  praised  by  Pliny,  and 


TAOKMINA  21 

used  at  the  sacred  feasts  of  Rome  ;  but  now, 
he  said  sadly,  the  grape  had  lost  its  flavour. 

The  sugar-cane,  which  flourished  in  later 
times,  is  also  gone.  But  the  mullet  that  is 
celebrated  in  Juvenal's  verse,  and  the  lam- 
preys that  once  went  to  better  Alexandrian 
luxury,  are  still  the  spoil  of  the  fishers,  the 
shrimps  are  delicate  to  the  palate,  and  the 
marbles  will  endure  as  long  as  this  rock  it- 
self. The  rock  lasts,  and  the  sea.  The  most 
ancient  memory  here  is  of  them,  for  this  is 
the  shore  of  Charybdis.  It  is  stated  in  Sal- 
lust  and  other  Latin  authors,  as  well  as  by 
writers  throughout  the  Middle  Ages,  that  all 
which  was  swallowed  up  in  the  whirlpool  of 
the  straits,  after  being  carried  beneath  the 
sea  for  miles,  was  finally  cast  up  on  the  beach 
beneath  the  hill  of  Taormina. 

The  rock  and  the  sea  were  finely  blended 
in  one  of  my  first  discoveries  in  the  land,  and 
in  consequence  they  have  seemed,  to  my  im- 
agination, more  closely  united  here  than  is  com- 
mon. On  a  stormy  afternoon  I  had  strolled 
down  the  main  road,  and  was  walking  toward 
Letojanni.  I  came,  after  a  little,  to  a  great 
cliff  that  overhung  the  sea,  with  room  for  the 


road  to  pass  beneath ;  and  as  I  drew  near  I 
heard  a  strange  sound,  a  low  roaring,  a  deep- 
toned  reverberation,  that  seemed  not  to  come 
from  the  breaking  waves,  loud  on  the  beach  : 
it  was  a  more  solemn,  a  more  piercing  and 
continuous  sound.  It  was  from  the  rock  it- 
self. The  grand  music  of  the  rolling  sea  be- 
neath was  taken  up  by  the  hollowed  cliff,  and 
reechoed  with  a  mighty  volume  of  sound  from 
invisible  sources.  It  seemed  the  voice  of  the 
rock,  as  if  by  long  sympathy  and  neighbour- 
hood in  that  lonely  place  the  cliff  were  inter- 
penetrated with  the  sea-music,  and  had  become 
resonant  of  itself  with  those  living  harmonies 
heard  only  in  the  Psalmist's  song.  It  seemed 
a  lyre  for  the  centuries  ;  and  I  thought  over 
how  many  a  conqueror,  how  many  a  race,  that 
requiem  had  been  lifted  upon  it  as  they  passed 
to  their  death  on  this  shore.  I  came  back 
slowly  in  the  twilight,  and  was  roused  from 
my  reverie  by  the  cold  wind  breathing  on  me 
as  I  reached  the  top  of  the  hill,  pure  and  keen 
and  frosted  like  the  bright  December  breezes 
of  my  own  land.  It  was  the  kiss  of  Etna  on 
my  cheek. 


TAORMINA  23 


Will  you  hear  the  legend  of  Taormina  ?  — 
for  in  these  days  I  dare  not  call  it  history. 
Noble  and  romantic  it  is,  and  age-long.  I  had 
not  hoped  to  recover  it ;  but  my  friend  the 
librarian  has  brought  me  books  in  which  pa- 
triotic Taorminians  have  written  the  story  cele- 
brating their  dear  city.  I  was  touched  by  the 
simplicity  with  which  he  informed  me  that  the 
town  authorities  had  been  unwilling  to  waste 
on  a  passing  stranger  these  little  paper-bound 
memorials  of  their  city.  "  But,"  he  said,  "  I 
told  them  I  had  given  you  my  word."  So  I 
possess  these  books  with  a  pleasant  association 
of  Sicilian  honour,  and  I  have  read  them  with 
real  interest.  As  I  turned  the  pages  I  was  re- 
minded once  more  how  impossible  it  is  to  know 
the  past.  The  past  survives  in  human  institu- 
tions, in  the  temperament  of  races,  and  in  the 
creations  of  ideal  art ;  but  only  in  the  last  is  it 
immortal.  Custom  and  law  are  for  an  age  ; 
race  after  race  is  pushed  to  the  sea,  and  dies  ; 
only  epic  and  saga  and  psalm  have  one  date 
with  man,  one  destiny  with  the  breath  of  his 
lips,  one  silence  at  the  last  with  them.  Least 


24  HEART  OF  MAN 

of  all  does  the  past  survive  in  the  living  memo- 
ries of  men.  Here  and  there  the  earth  cherishes 
a  coin  or  a  statue,  the  desert  embalms  some 
solitary  city,  a  few  leagues  of  rainless  air  pre- 
serve on  rock  and  column  the  lost  speech  of 
Nile  ;  so  the  mind  of  man  holds  in  dark  places, 
or  lifts  to  living  fame,  no  more  than  ruins  and 
fragments  of  the  life  that  was.  I  have  been  a 
diligent  reader  of  books  in  my  time  ;  and  here 
in  an  obscure  corner  of  the  Old- World  I  find  a 
narrative  studded  with  noble  names,  not  undis- 
tinguished by  stirring  deeds,  and,  save  for  the 
great  movements  of  history  and  a  few  shadowy 
figures,  it  is  all  fresh  to  my  mind.  I  have 
looked  on  three  thousand  years  of  human  life 
upon  this  hill  ;  something  of  what  they  have 
yielded,  if  you  will  have  patience  with  such  a 
tract  of  time,  I  will  set  down. 

My  author  is  Monsignore  Giovanni  di  Gio- 
vanni, a  Taorminian,  who  flourished  in  the  last 
century.  He  was  a  man  of  vast  erudition,  and 
there  is  in  his  pages  that  Old- World  learning 
which  delights  me.  He  was  born  before  the 
days  of  historic  doubt.  He  tells  a  true  story. 
To  allege  an  authority  is  with  him  to  prove  a 
fact,  and  to  cite  all  writers  who  repeat  the  orig- 


TAORMINA  25 

inal  source  is  to  render  truth  impregnable. 
Rarely  does  he  show  any  symptom  of  the 
modern  malady  of  incredulity.  Scripta  littera 
is  reason  enough,  unless  the  fair  fame  of  his 
city  chances  to  be  at  stake.  He  was  really 
learned,  and  I  do  wrong  to  seem  to  diminish  his 
authority.  He  was  a  patient  investigator  of 
manuscripts,  and  did  important  service  to  Sicil- 
ian history.  The  simplicity  I  have  alluded  to 
affects  mainly  the  ecclesiastical  part  of  his  nar- 
rative. A  few  statements  also  in  regard  to  the 
prehistoric  period  might  disturb  the  modern 
mind,  but  I  own  to  finding  in  them  the  charm 
of  lost  things.  In  my  mental  provinces  I  wel- 
come the  cave-man,  the  flint-maker,  the  lake- 
dweller,  and  all  their  primitive  tribes  to  the 
abode  of  science  ;  but  I  feel  them  to  be  in- 
truders in  my  antiquity.  I  was  brought  up  on 
quite  other  chronologies,  and  I  still  like  a  his- 
tory that  begins  with  the  flood.  I  will  not, 
however,  ask  any  one  of  more  serious  mind  to 
go  back  with  Monsignore  and  myself  to  the  era 
of  autochthonous  Sicily,  when  the  children  of 
the  Cyclops  inhabited  the  land,  and  Demeter 
in  her  search  for  Proserpina  wept  on  this  hill, 
and  Charybdis  lay  stretched  out  under  these 


26  HEART   OF   MAN 

bluffs  watching  the  sea.  It  is  precise  enough 
to  say  that  Taormina  began  eighty  years  before 
the  Trojan  War.  Very  dimly,  it  must  be  ac- 
knowledged, the  ancient  Sicani  are  seen  arriv- 
ing and  driven,  like  all  doomed  races,  south  and 
west  out  of  the  land,  and  in  their  place  the 
Siculi  flourish,  and  a  Samnite  colony  voyages 
over  the  straits  from  Italy  and  joins  them. 
Here  for  three  centuries  these  sparse  communi- 
ties lived  along  these  heights  in  fear  of  the  sea 
pirates,  and  warred  confusedly  from  their  main- 
hold  on  Mount  Taurus,  or  the  Bull,  so  called 
because  the  two  summits  of  the  mountain  from 
a  distance  resemble  a  bull's  horns;  and  they 
left  no  other  memory  of  themselves. 

Authentic  history  begins  toward  the  end  of 
the  eighth  century  before  our  era.  It  is  a  bright 
burst ;  for  then,  down  by  yonder  green-foaming 
rock,  the  young  Greek  mariners  leaped  on  the 
strand.  This  was  their  first  land-fall  in  Sicily  ; 
that  rock,  their  Plymouth ;  and  here,  doubtless, 
the  alarmed  mountaineers  stood  in  their  fastness 
and  watched  the  bearers  of  the  world's  torch, 
and  knew  them  not,  bringing  daybreak  to  the 
dark  island  for  evermore,  but  fought,  as  bar- 
barism will,  against  the  light,  and  were  at  last 


TAORMINA  27 

made  friends  with  it  —  a  chance  that  does  not 
always  befall.  Then  quickly  rose  the  lowland 
city  of  Naxos,  and  by  the  river  sprang  up  the 
temple  to  Guiding  Apollo,  the  earliest  shrine 
of  the  Sicilian  Greeks,  where  they  came  ever 
afterward  to  pray  for  a  prosperous  voyage 
when  they  would  go  across  the  sea,  homeward. 
They  were  from  the  first  a  fighting  race ;  and 
decade  by  decade  the  cloud  of  war  grew  heavier 
on  each  horizon,  southward  from  Syracuse  and 
northward  from  Messina,  and  swords  beat  fiercer 
and  stronger  with  the  rivalries  of  growing 
states  —  battles  dimly  discerned  now.  A  single 
glimpse  flashes  out  on  the  page  of  Thucydides. 
He  relates  that  when  once  the  Messenians 
threatened  Naxos  with  overthrow,  the  moun- 
taineers rushed  down  from  the  heights  in  great 
numbers  to  the  relief  of  their  Greek  neighbours, 
and  routed  the  enemy  and  slew  many.  This  is 
the  first  bloodstain,  clear  and  bright,  on  our 
Taorminian  land.  Shall  I  add,  from  the  few 
relics  of  that  age,  that  Pythagoras,  on  the  jour- 
ney he  undertook  to  establish  the  governments 
of  the  Sicilian  cities,  wrought  miracles  here, 
curing  a  mad  lover  of  his  frenzy  by  music,  and 
being  present  on  this  hill  and  at  Metaponto  the 


28  HEART   OF   MAN 

same  day  —  a  thing  not  to  be  done  without 
magic  ?  But  at  last  we  see  plainly  Alcibiades 
coasting  along  below,  and  the  ill-fated  Athe- 
nians wintering  in  the  port,  and  horsemen  go- 
ing out  from  Naxos  toward  Etna  on  the  side  of 
Athens  in  the  death-struggle  of  her  glory. 
And  then,  suddenly,  after  the  second  three 
hundred  years,  all  is  over,  the  Greek  city  be- 
trayed, sacked,  destroyed,  Naxos  trodden  out 
under  the  foot  of  Dionysius  the  tyrant. 

Other  fortune  awaited  him  a  few  years  later 
when  he  came  again,  and  our  city  (which,  one 
knows  not  when,  had  been  walled  and  fortified) 
stood  its  first  historic  siege.  Dionysius  arrived 
in  the  dead  of  winter.  Snow  and  ice  —  I 
can  hardly  credit  it  —  whitened  and  roughened 
these  ravines,  a  new  ally  to  the  besieged  ;  but 
the  tyrant  thought  to  betray  them  by  a  false 
security  in  such  a  season.  On  a  bitter  night, 
when  clouds  hooded  the  hilltop,  and  mists 
rolled  low  about  its  flanks,  he  climbed  unob- 
served, with  his  forces,  up  these  precipices,  and 
gained  two  outer  forts  which  gave  footways  to 
the  walls  ;  but  the  town  roused  at  the  sound 
of  arms  and  the  cries  of  the  guards,  and  came 
down  to  the  fray,  and  fought  until  six  hundred 


TAORMINA  29 

of  the  foe  fell  dead,  others  with  wounds  sur- 
rendered, and  the  rest  fled  headlong,  with 
Dionysius  among  them,  hard  pressed,  and 
staining  the  snow  with  his  blood  as  he  went. 
This  was  the  city's  first  triumph. 

Not  only  with  brave  deeds  did  Taormina 
begin,  but,  as  a  city  should,  with  a  great  man. 
He  was  really  great,  this  Andromachus.  Do 
you  not  remember  him  out  of  Plutarch,  and 
the  noble  words  that  have  been  his  immortal 
memory  among  men  ?  "  This  man  was  incom- 
parably the  best  of  all  those  that  bore  sway  in 
Sicily  at  that  time,  governing  his  citizens  accord- 
ing to  law  and  justice,  and  openly  professing 
an  aversion  and  enmity  to  all  tyrants."  Was 
the  defeat  of  Dionysius  the  first  of  his  youthful 
exploits,  as  some  say  ?  I  cannot  determine  ; 
but  it  is  certain  that  he  gathered  the  surviving 
exiles  of  Naxos,  and  gave  them  this  plateau  to 
dwell  upon,  and  it  was  no  longer  called  Mount 
Taurus,  as  had  been  the  wont,  but  Tauromen- 
ium,  or  the  Abiding-place  of  the  Bull.  A  few 
years  later  Andromachus  performed  the  signal 
action  of  his  life  by  befriending  Timoleon,  as 
great  a  character,  in  my  eyes,  as  Plutarch  re- 
cords the  glory  of.  Timoleon  had  set  out 


30 

from  Corinth,  at  the  summons  of  his  Greek 
countrymen,  to  restore  the  liberty  of  Syracuse, 
then  tyrannized  over  by  the  second  Dionysius  ; 
and  because  Andromachus,  in  his  stronghold 
of  Taormina,  hated  tyranny,  Plutarch  says,  he 
"  gave  Timoleon  leave  to  muster  up  his  troops 
there  and  to  make  that  city  the  seat  of  war, 
persuading  the  inhabitants  to  join  their  arms 
with  the  Corinthian  forces  and  to  assist  them 
in  the  design  of  delivering  Sicily."  It  was  on 
our  beach  that  Timoleon  disembarked,  and 
from  our  city  he  went  forth  to  the  conquest 
foretold  by  the  wreath  that  fell  upon  his  head 
as  he  prayed  at  Delphi,  and  by  the  prophetic 
fire  that  piloted  his  ship  over  the  sea.  The 
Carthaginians  came  quickly  after  him  from 
Reggio,  where  he  had  eluded  them,  for  they 
were  in  alliance  with  the  tyrant ;  and  from 
their  vessels  they  parleyed  with  Andromachus 
in  the  port.  With  an  insolent  gesture,  the 
envoy,  raising  his  hand,  palm  up,  and  turning 
it  lightly  over,  said  that  even  so,  and  with  such 
ease,  would  he  overturn  the  little  city  ;  and 
Andromachus,  mocking  his  hand-play,  answered 
that  if  he  did  not  leave  the  harbour,  even  so 
would  he  upset  his  galley.  The  Carthaginians 


TAORMINA  31 

sailed  away.  The  city  remained  firm-perched. 
Timoleon  prospered,  brought  back  liberty  to 
Syracuse,  ruled  wisely  and  nobly,  and  gave  to 
Sicily  those  twenty  years  of  peace  which  were 
the  flower  of  her  Greek  annals.  Then,  we 
must  believe,  rose  the  little  temple  on  our 
headland,  the  Greek  theatre  where  the  tongue 
of  Athens  lived,  the  gymnasium  where  the 
youths  grew  fair  and  strong.  Then  Taormina 
struck  her  coins  :  Apollo  with  the  laurel,  with 
the  lyre,  with  the  grape  ;  Dionysus  with  the 
ivy,  and  Zeus  with  the  olive  ;  for  the  gods  and 
temples  of  the  Naxians  had  become  ours,  and 
were  religiously  cherished  ;  and  with  the  rest 
was  struck  a  coin  with  the  Minotaur,  our 
symbol.  But  of  Andromachus,  the  founder  of 
the  well-built  and  fairly  adorned  Greek  city  that 
then  rose,  we  hear  no  more  —  a  hero,  I  think, 
one  of  the  true  breed  of  the  founders  of  states. 
But  alas  for  liberty  !  A  new  tyrant,  Agatho- 
cles,  was  soon  on  the  Syracusan  throne,  and  he 
won  this  city  by  friendly  professions,  only  to 
empty  it  by  treachery  and  murder  ;  and  he 
drove  into  exile  Timseus,  the  son  of  Androm- 
achus. Timteus  ?  He,  evidently,  of  my  Casa 
Timeo.  I  know  him  now,  the  once  famed  his- 


32  HEART  OF   MAN 

torian  whom  Cicero  praises  as  the  most  erudite 
in  history  of  all  writers  up  to  his  time,  most  co- 
pious in  facts  and  various  in  comment,  not  un- 
polished in  style,  eloquent,  and  distinguished 
by  terse  and  charming  expression.  Ninety 
years  he  lived  in  the  Greek  world,  devoted 
himself  to  history,  and  produced  many  works, 
now  lost.  The  ancient  writers  read  him,  and 
from  their  criticism  it  is  clear  that  he  was 
marked  by  a  talent  for  invective,  was  given  to 
sharp  censure,  and  loved  the  bitter  part  of 
truth.  He  introduced  precision  and  detail  into 
his  art,  and  is  credited  with  being  the  first  to 
realize  the  importance  of  chronology  and  to 
seek  exactness  in  it.  He  3: ever  saw  again  his 
lovely  birthplace,  and  I  easily  forgive  to  the 
exile  and  the  son  of  Andromachus  the  vigour 
with  which  he  depicted  the  crimes  of  Agatho- 
cles  and  others  of  the  tyrants.  In  our  city, 
meanwhile,  the  Greek  genius  waning  to  its  ex- 
tinction, Tyndarion  ruled  ;  and  in  his  time 
Pyrrhus  came  hither  to  repulse  the  ever 
invading  power  of  Carthage.  But  he  was  little 
more  than  a  shedder  of  blood  ;  he  accomplished 
nothing,  and  I  name  him  only  as  one  of  the 
figures  of  our  beach. 


TAORMINA  33 

The  day  of  Greece  was  gone  ;  but  those  two 
clouds  of  war  still  hung  on  the  horizon,  north 
and  south,  with  ever  darker  tempest.  Instead 
of  Syracuse  and  Messina,  Carthage  and  the 
new  name  of  Rome  now  sent  them  forth,  and 
over  this  island  they  encountered.  Our  city, 
true  to  its  ancient  tradition,  became  Rome's 
ever  faithful  ally,  as  you  may  read  in  the  poem 
of  Silius  Italicus,  and  was  dignified  by  treaty 
with  the  title  of  a  confederate  city  ;  and  of  this 
fact  Cicero  reminded  the  judges  when  in  that 
famous  trial  he  thundered  against  Verres,  the 
spoiler  of  our  Sicilian  province,  and  with  the 
other  cities  defended  this  of  ours,  whose  people 
had  signalized  their  hatred  of  the  Roman 
praetor  by  overthrowing  his  statue  in  the  mar- 
ket-place and  sparing  the  pedestal,  as  they  said, 
to  be  an  eternal  memorial  of  his  infamy.  From 
the  Roman  age,  however,  I  take  but  two  epi- 
sodes, for  I  find  that  to  write  this  town's  his- 
tory were  to  write  the  history  of  half  the 
Mediterranean  world.  When  the  slaves  rose 
in  the  Servile  War,  they  intrenched  themselves 
on  this  hill,  and  in  their  hands  the  city  bore  its 
siege  by  the  Roman  consul  as  hardily  as  was 
ever  its  custom.  Cruel  they  were,  no  doubt, 

D 


34  HEART   OF   MAN 

and  vindictive.  With  horror  Monsignore  re- 
lates that  they  were  so  resolved  not  to  yield 
that,  starving,  they  ate  their  children,  their 
wives,  and  one  another  ;  and  he  rejoices  when 
they  were  at  last  betrayed  and  massacred,  and 
this  disgrace  was  wiped  away.  I  hesitate.  I 
cannot  feel  regret  when  those  whom  man  has 
made  brutal  answer  brutally  to  their  oppressors. 
I  have  enough  of  the  old  Taorminian  spirit 
to  remember  that  the  slaves,  too,  fought  for 
liberty.  I  am  sorry  for  those  penned  and 
dying  men  ;  their  famine  and  slaughter  in 
these  walls  were  least  horrible  for  their  part  in 
the  catastrophe,  if  one  looks  through  what  they 
did  to  what  they  were,  and  remembers  that  the 
civilization  they  violated  had  stripped  them  of 
humanity.  After  the  slave,  I  make  room  —  for 
whom  else  than  imperial  Augustus  ?  Off  this 
shore  he  defeated  Sextus  Pompey,  and  he 
thought  easily  to  subdue  the  town  above  when 
he  summoned  it.  But  Taormina  was  always  a 
loyal  little  place,  and  it  would  not  yield  without 
a  siege.  Then  Augustus,  sitting  down  before 
it,  prayed  in  our  temple  of  Guiding  Apollo  that 
he  might  have  the  victory  ;  and  as  he  walked 
by  the  beach  afterward  a  fish  threw  itself  out 


TAORMINA  35 

of  the  water  before  him  —  an  omen,  said  the 
diviners,  that  even  so  the  Pompeians,  who  held 
the  seas,  after  many  turns  of  varied  fortune, 
should  be  brought  to  his  feet.  Pompey  re- 
turned with  a  fleet,  and  in  these  waters  again 
the  battle  was  fought  and  Augustus  lost  it, 
and  the  siege  was  raised.  But  when  a  third 
time  the  trial  of  naval  strength  was  essayed,  and 
the  cause  of  the  Pompeians  ruined,  Augustus 
remembered  the  city  that  had  defied  him,  sent 
its  inhabitants  into  exile,  and  planted  a  Roman 
colony  in  its  place.  Latin  was  now  the  lan- 
guage here.  The  massive  grandeur  of  Roman 
architecture  replaced  the  old  Greek  structures. 
The  amphitheatre  was  enlarged  and  renewed  in 
its  present  form,  villas  of  luxury  bordered  the 
coasts  as  in  Campania,  and  coins  were  struck  in 
the  Augustan  name. 

The  Roman  domination  in  its  turn  slowly 
moved  to  its  fall ;  and  where  should  the  new 
age  begin  more  fitly  than  in  this  city  of  begin- 
nings ?  As  of  old  the  Greek  torch  first  gleamed 
here,  here  first  on  Sicilian  soil  was  the  Cross 
planted.  The  gods  of  Olympus  had  many  tem- 
ples about  the  hill  slopes,  shrines  of  venerable 
antiquity  even  in  those  days ;  but  if  the  monk- 


36  HEART  OF   MAN 

ish  chronicles  be  credited,  the  new  faith  sig- 
nalized its  victory  rather  over  three  strange 
idolatries,  —  the  worship  of  Falcone,  of  Lissone, 
and  of  Scamandro,  a  goddess.  I  refuse  to  be- 
lieve that  the  citizens  were  accustomed  to  sac- 
rifice three  youths  annually  to  Falcone  ;  and  as 
for  the  other  two  deities,  little  is  known  of  them 
except  that  their  destruction  marked  the  ad- 
vent of  the  young  religion.  Pancrazio  was  the 
name  of  him  who  was  destined  to  be  our  patron 
saint  through  the  coming  centuries.  He  was 
born  in  Antioch,  and  when  a  child  of  three 
years,  going  with  his  father  into  Judsea,  he  had 
seen  the  living  Christ;  now,  grown  into  man- 
hood, he  was  sent  by  St.  Peter  to  spread  the 
gospel  in  the  isles  of  the  sea.  He  disem- 
barked on  our  beach,  and  forthwith  threw  Lis- 
sone's  image  into  the  waves,  and  with  it  a  holy 
dragon  which  was  coiled  about  it  like  a  gar- 
ment and  was  fed  with  sacrifices  ;  and  he  shat- 
tered with  his  cross  the  great  idol  Scamandro  : 
and  so  Taormina  became  Christian,  welcomed 
St.  Peter  on  his  way  to  Rome,  and  entered 
on  the  long  new  age.  It  was  here,  as  else- 
where, the  age  of  martyrs  —  Pancrazio  first, 
and  after  him  Geminiano,  guided  hither  with 


TAORMINA  37 

his  mother  by  an  angel ;  and  then  San  Nicone, 
who  suffered  with  his  one  hundred  and  ninety- 
nine  brother  monks,  and  Sepero  and  Corneliano 
with  their  sixty;  the  age  of  monks  —  Luca, 
who  fled  from  his  bridal  to  live  on  Etna,  with 
fasts,  visions,  and  prophecies ;  and,  later,  sim- 
ple-minded Daniele,  the  follower  of  St.  Elia, 
of  whom  there  is  more  to  be  recorded  ;  the 
age  of  bishops,  heard  in  Roman  councils  and 
the  palace  of  Byzantium,  of  whom  two  onjy 
are  of  singular  interest  —  Zaccaria,  who  was 
deprived,  evidently  the  ablest  in  mind  and  pol- 
icy of  all  the  succession,  once  a  great  figure  in 
the  disputes  of  East  and  West ;  and  Procopio, 
whom  the  Saracens  slew,  for  the  Crescent  now 
followed  the  Cross. 

The  ancient  war-cloud  had  again  gathered 
out  of  Africa.  The  Saracens  were  in  the  land, 
and  every  city  had  fallen  except  Syracuse  and 
Taormina.  For  sixty  years  the  former  held 
out,  and  our  city  for  yet  another  thirty,  the 
sole  refuge  of  the  Christians.  Signs  of  the 
impending  destruction  were  first  seen  by  that 
St.  Elia  alread}r  mentioned,  who  wandered 
hither,  and  was  displeased  by  the  manners  and 
morals  of  the  citizens.  I  am  sorrv  to  record 


38  HEART   OF   MAN 

that  Monsignore  believed  his  report,  for  only 
here  is  there  mention  of  such  a  matter.  u  The 
citizens,"  says  my  author,  "  lived  in  luxury  and 
pleasure  not  becoming  to  a  state  of  war.  They 
saw  on  all  sides  the  fields  devastated,  houses 
burnt,  wealth  plundered,  cities  given  to  the 
Hames,  friends  and  companions  killed  or  re- 
duced to  slavery,  yet  was  there  no  vice,  no  sin, 
that  did  not  rule  unpunished  among  them." 
Therefore  the  saint  preached  the  woe  to  come, 
and,  turning  to  the  governor,  Constantino  Pa- 
trizio,  in  his  place  in  the  cathedral,  he  appealed 
to  him  to  restrain  his  people.  "  Let  the  philos- 
ophy of  the  Gentiles,"  he  exclaimed,  "be  your 
shame.  Epaminondas,  that  illustrious  condot- 
tiere,  strictly  restrained  himself  from  intem- 
perance, from  every  lust,  every  allurement  of 
pleasure.  So,  also,  Scipio,  the  Roman  leader, 
was  valorous  through  the  same  continence  as 
Epaminondas ;  and  therefore  they  brought  back 
signal  victory,  one  over  the  Spartans,  the  other 
over  the  Carthaginians,  and  both  erected  im- 
mortal trophies."  He  promised  them  mercy 
with  repentance,  but  ended  threateningly:  "So 
far  as  in  me  lies  I  have  clearly  foretold  to  you 
all  that  has  been  divinely  revealed  to  me.  If 


TAORMINA  39 

you  believe  my  words,  like  the  penitents  of 
Nineveh,  you  shall  find  mercy ;  if  you  despise 
my  admonitions,  bound  and  captive  you  shall 
be  reduced  to  the  worst  slavery."  He  prophe- 
sied yet  more  in  private.  He  went  to  the  house 
of  a  noble  citizen,  Crisione,  who  esteemed  him 
as  a  father,  and,  lying  in  bed,  he  said  to  him  : 
"  Do  you  see,  Crisione,  the  bed  in  which  I 
now  lie  ?  In  this  same  bed  shall  Ibrahim  sleep, 
hungry  for  human  blood,  and  the  walls  of  the 
rooms  shall  see  many  of  the  most  distinguished 
persons  of  this  city  all  together  put  to  the  edge 
of  the  sword."  Then  he  left  the  house  and 
went  to  the  square  in  the  centre  of  the  city, 
and,  standing  there,  he  lifted  his  garments 
above  the  knee.  Whereupon  simple  Daniele, 
who  always  followed  him  about,  marvelling 
asked,  "  What  does  this  thing  mean,  father  ?  " 
The  old  man  had  his  answer  ready,  "Now  1 
see  rivers  of  blood  running,  and  these  proud 
and  magnificent  buildings  which  you  see  ex- 
alted shall  be  destroyed  even  to  the  founda- 
tions by  the  Saracens."  And  the  monk  fled 
from  the  doomed  city,  like  a  true  prophet,  and 
went  overseas. 

The  danger  was  near,  but  perhaps  not  more 


40  HEART  OF  MAN 

felt  than  it  must  always  have  been  where  the 
prayer  for  defence  against  the  Saracens  had 
gone  up  for  a  hundred  years  in  the  cathedral. 
The  governor,  however,  had  taken  pains  to  add 
to  the  strength  of  the  city  by  strong  fortifica- 
tions upon  Mola.  Ahulabras  came  under  the 
walls,  but  gave  over  the  ever  unsuccessful  at- 
tempt to  take  the  place,  and  went  on  to  ruin 
Reggio  beyond  the  straits.  When  it  was  told 
to  his  father  Ibrahim  that  Tabermina,  as  the 
Saracens  called  it,  had  again  been  passed  by, 
he  cried  out  upon  his  son,  "  He  is  degenerate, 
degenerate  !  He  took  his  nature  from  his  mother 
and  not  from  his  father  ;  for,  had  he  been  born 
from  me,  surely  his  sword  would  not  have  spared 
the  Christians  ! "  Therefore  he  recalled  him 
to  the  home  government,  and  came  himself  and 
sat  down  before  the  city.  The  garrison  was 
small  and  insufficient,  but,  says  my  author,  fol- 
lowing old  chronicles,  "youths,  old  men,  and 
children,  without  distinction  of  age,  sex,  or  con- 
dition, fearing  outrage  and  all  that  slavery  would 
expose  them  to,  all  spontaneously  offered  them- 
selves to  fight  in  this  holy  war  even  to  death  : 
with  such  courage  did  love  of  country  and  re- 
ligious zeal  inspire  the  citizens."  Ibrahim  had 


TAORMINA  41 

other  weapons  than  the  sword.  He  first  cor- 
rupted the  captains  of  the  Greek  fleet,  who  were 
afterward  condemned  for  the  treason  at  By- 
zantium. Then,  all  being  ready,  he  promised 
some  Ethiopians  of  his  army,  who  are  described 
as  of  a  ferocious  nature  and  harsh  aspect,  that 
he  would  give  them  the  city  for  booty,  besides 
other  gifts,  if  they  would  devote  themselves  to 
the  bold  undertaking.  The  catastrophe  de- 
serves to  be  told  in  Monsignore's  own  words  : 

"  This  people,  accustomed  to  rapine,  allured  by 
the  riches  of  the  Taorminians  and  the  promises 
of  the  king,  with  the  aid  of  the  traitors  entered 
unexpectedly  into  the  city,  and  with  bloody 
swords  and  mighty  cries  and  clamour  assailed 
the  citizens.  Meanwhile  King  Ibrahim,  having 
entered  with  all  his  army  by  a  secret  gate  under 
the  fortress  of  Mola,  thence  called  the  gate  of 
the  Saracens,  raged  against  the  citizens  with 
such  unexpected  and  cruel  slaughter  that  not 
only  neither  the  weakness  of  sex,  nor  tender 
years,  nor  reverence  for  hoary  age,  but  not  even 
the  abundance  of  blood  that  like  torrents  flowed 
down  the  ways,  touched  to  pity  that  ferocious 
heart.  The  soldiers,  masters  of  the  beautiful 


42  HEART  OP   MAN 

and  wealthy  city,  divided  among  them  the  riches 
and  goods  of  the  citizens  according  as  to  each 
one  the  lot  fell ;  they  levelled  to  the  ground  the 
magnificent  buildings,  public  or  private,  sacred 
or  profane,  all  that  were  proudest  for  ampli- 
tude, construction,  and  ornament ;  and  that 
not  even  the  ruins  of  ancient  splendour  should 
remain,  all  that  had  survived  they  gave  to  the 
flames." 

This  city,  which  the  Saracens  destroyed,  is 
the  one  the  Taormiriians  cherish  as  the  cul- 
mination of  their  past.  In  the  Greek,  the 
Roman,  and  the  early  Christian  ages  it  had 
flourished,  as  both  its  ruins  and  its  history 
attest,  and  much  must  have  yet  survived  from 
those  times  ;  while  its  station  as  the  only 
Christian  stronghold  in  the  island  would 
naturally  have  attracted  wealth  hither  for 
safety.  In  this  first  sack  of  the  Saracens, 
the  ancient  city  must  have  perished,  but  the 
destruction  could  hardly  have  been  so  thorough 
as  is  represented,  since  some  of  the  churches 
themselves,  in  their  present  state,  show  Byzan- 
tine workmanship. 

There  remains  one  bloody  and  characteristic 


TAORMINA  43 

episode  to  Ibrahim's  victory.  The  king,  says 
the  Arab  chronicler,  was  pious  and  naturally 
compassionate,  but  on  this  occasion  he  forgot 
his  usual  mildness.  In  the  midst  of  fire  and 
blood  he  ordered  the  soldiers  to  search  the 
caverns  of  the  hills,  and  they  dragged  forth 
many  prisoners,  among  whom  was  the  Bishop 
Procopio.  The  king  spoke  to  him  gently  and 
nobly,  "  Because  you  are  wise  and  old,  O  Bishop, 
I  exhort  you  with  soft  words  to  obey  my  advice, 
and  to  have  foresight  for  your  own  safety  and 
that  of  your  companions  ;  otherwise  you  shall 
suffer  what  your  fellow-citizens  have  suffered 
from  me.  If  you  will  embrace  my  laws,  and 
deny  the  Christian  religion,  you  shall  have  the 
second  place  after  me,  and  shall  be  more  dear 
to  me  than  all  the  Agarenes."  The  prelate 
only  smiled.  Then,  full  of  wrath,  the  king 
said  :  "  Do  you  smile  while  you  are  my  pris- 
oner? Know  you  not  in  whose  presence  you 
are ?  "  "I  smile  truly,"  came  the  answer, 
"because  I  see  you  are  inspired  by  a  demon 
who  puts  these  words  into  your  mouth." 
Furious,  the  king  called  to  his  attendants, 
"  Quick,  break  open  his  breast,  tear  out  his 
heart,  that  we  may  see  and  understand  the 


44  HEART  OF  MAN 

secrets  of  his  mind."  While  the  command 
was  being  executed,  Procopio  reproved  the 
king  and  comforted  his  companions.  "  The 
tyrant,  swollen  with  rage,  and  grinding  his 
teeth',"  says  the  narrative,  "barbarously  of- 
fered him  the  torn-out  heart  that  he  might  eat 
it."  Then  he  bade  them  strike  off  the  bishop's 
head  (who,  we  are  told,  was  already  half  dead), 
and  also  the  heads  of  his  companions,  and  to 
burn  the  bodies  all  together.  And  as  St.  Pan- 
crazio  of  old  had  thrown  the  holy  dragon  into 
the  sea,  so  now  were  his  own  ashes  scattered  to 
the  winds  of  heaven ;  and  Ibrahim,  having  ac- 
complished his  work,  departed. 

Some  of  the  citizens,  however,  had  survived, 
and  among  them  Crisione,  the  host  of  St.  Elia. 
He  went  to  bear  the  tidings  to  the  saint ;  and 
being  now  assured  of  the  gift  of  prophecy  pos- 
sessed by  the  holy  man,  asked  him  to  foretell 
his  future.  He  met  the  customary  fate  of  the 
curious  in  such  things.  "  I  foresee,"  said  the 
discomfortable  saint,  "that  within  a  few  days 
you  will  die."  And  to  make  an  end  of  St.  Elia 
with  Crisione,  let  me  record  here  the  simple 
Daniele's  last  act  of  piety  to  his  master.  It  is 
little  that  in  such  company  he  fought  with 


TAORMINA  45 

devils,  or  that  after  he  had  written  with  much 
labour  a  beautiful  Psalter,  the  old  monk  bade 
him  fling  it  and  worldly  pride  together  over  the 
cliff  into  a  lake.  Such  episodes  belonged  to 
the  times ;  and,  after  all,  by  making  a  circuit 
of  six  miles  he  found  the  Psalter  miraculously 
unwet,  and  only  his  worldly  pride  remained  at 
the  lake's  bottom.  But  it  was  a  mind  singu- 
larly inventive  of  penance  that  led  the  dying 
saint  to  charge  poor  Daniele  to  bear  the  corpse 
on  his  back  a  long  way  over  the  mountains, 
merely  because,  he  said,  it  would  be  a  difficult 
thing  to  do.  Other  survivors  of  the  sack 
of  Taormina,  more  fortunate  than  Crisione, 
watched  their  opportunity,  and,  at  a  moment 
when  the  garrison  was  weak,  entered,  seized  the 
place,  fortified  it  anew,  and  offered  it  to  the 
Greek  emperor  once  more.  He  could  not 
maintain  war  with  the  Saracens,  but  by  a 
treaty  made  with  them  he  secured  his  faithful 
Taorminians  in  the  possession  of  the  city. 
After  forty  years  of  peace  under  this  treaty  it 
was  again  besieged  for  several  months,  and  fell 
on  Christmas  night.  Seventeen  hundred  and 
fifty  of  its  citizens  were  sent  by  the  victors  into 
slavery  in  Africa.  Greek  troops,  however,  soon 


46  HEART  OF   MAN 

retook  the  city  in  a  campaign  that  opened  brill- 
iantly in  Sicily  only  to  close  in  swift  disaster ; 
but  for  five  years  longer  Taormina  sustained 
continual  siege,  and  when  it  fell  at  last,  with 
the  usual  carnage  of  its  citizens  and  the  now 
thrice-repeated  fire  and  ruin  of  Saracenic  vic- 
tory, we  may  well  believe  that,  though  it  re- 
mained the  seat  of  a  governor,  little  of  the 
city  was  left  except  its  memory.  Its  name 
even  was  changed  to  Moezzia. 

The  Crescent  ruled  undisturbed  for  a  hun- 
dred years,  until  the  landing  of  Count  Roger, 
the  Norman,  the  great  hero  of  mediae val  Sicily, 
who  recovered  the  island  to  the  Christian  faith. 
Taormina,  true  to  its  tradition,  was  long  in 
falling  ;  but  after  eighteen  years  of  desultory 
warfare  Count  Roger  sat  down  before  it  with 
determination.  He  surrounded  it  with  a  cir- 
cumvallation  of  twenty-two  fortresses  con- 
nected by  ramparts  and  bridges,  and  cut  off 
all  access  by  land  or  sea.  Each  day  he  in- 
spected the  lines  ;  and  the  enemy,  having  no- 
ticed this  habit,  laid  an  ambush  for  him  in 
some  young  myrtles  where  the  path  he  fol- 
lowed had  a  very  narrow  passage  over  the 
precipices.  They  rushed  out  on  him,  and,  as 


TAORMINA  47 

he  was  unarmed  and  alone,  would  have  killed 
him,  had  not  their  cries  attracted  one  Evandro, 
a  Breton,  who,  coming,  and  seeing  his  chief's 
Deril,  threw  himself  between,  and  died  in  his 
place.  Count  Roger  was  not  forgetful  of  this 
noble  action.  He  recovered  the  body,  held 
great  funeral  services,  and  gave  gifts  to  the 
soldiers  and  the  church.  The  story  appealed 
so  to  the  old  chronicler  Malaterra,  that  he 
told  it  in  both  prose  and  verse.  After  seven 
months  the  city  surrended,  and  the  iron  cross 
was  again  set  up  on  the  rocky  eminence  by  the 
gate.  It  is  a  sign  of  the  ruin  which  had  be- 
fallen that  the  city  now  lost  its  bishopric  and 
was  ecclesiastically  annexed  to  another  see. 

Taormina,  compared  with  what  it  had  been, 
was  now  a  place  of  the  desert ;  but  not  the  less 
for  that  did  the  tide  of  war  rage  round  it  for 
five  hundred  years  to  come.  It  was  like  a  rock 
of  the  sea  over  which  conflicting  billows  break 
eternally.  I  will  not  narrate  the  feudal  story 
of  internecine  violence,  nor  how  amidst  it  all 
every  religious  order  set  up  monasteries  upon 
the  beautiful  hillsides,  of  whose  life  little  is 
now  left  but  the  piles  of  books  in  old  bindings 
over  which  my  friend  the  librarian  keeps  guard, 


48  HEART  OF  MAN 

mourning  the  neglect  in  which  they  are  left. 
Among  both  the  nobles  and  the  fathers  were 
some  examples  of  heroism,  sacrifice,  and  learn- 
ing, but  their  deeds  and  virtues  may  sleep 
unwaked  by  me.  The  kings  and  queens  who 
took  refuge  here,  and  fled  again,  Messenian 
foray  and  Chiaramontane  faction,  shall  go  un- 
recorded. I  must  not,  however,  in  the  long 
roll  of  the  famous  figures  of  our  beach  forget 
that  our  English  Richard  the  Lion-hearted  was 
entertained  here  by  Tancred  in  crusading  days; 
and  of  notable  sieges  let  me  name  at  least  that 
which  the  city  suffered  for  its  loyalty  to  the 
brave  and  generous  Manfred  when  the  Mes- 
senians  surprised  and  wasted  it,  and  that  which 
with  less  destruction  the  enemies  of  the  second 
Frederick  inflicted  on  it,  and  that  of  the  French 
under  Charles  II.,  who,  contrary  to  his  word, 
gave  up  the  surrendered  city  to  the  soldiery  for 
eight  whole  days  —  a  terrible  sack,  of  which 
Monsigriore  has  heard  old  men  tell.  What 
part  the  citizens  took  in  the  Sicilian  Vespers, 
and  how  the  Parliament  that  vainly  sought  a 
king  for  all  Sicily  was  held  here,  and  in  later 
times  the  marches  of  the  Germans,  Spaniards, 
and  English  —  these  were  too  long  a  tale. 


TAORMINA  49 

With  one  more  signal  memory  I  close  this 
world-history,  as  it  began,  with  a  noble  name. 
It  was  from  our  beach  yonder  that  Garibaldi 
set  out  for  Italy  in  the  campaign  of  Aspro- 
monte  ;  hither  he  was  brought  back,  wounded, 
to  the  friendly  people,  still  faithful  to  that  love 
of  liberty  which  flowed  in  the  old  Taorminian 
blood. 

I  shut  my  books  ;  but  to  my  eyes  the  rock 
is  scriptured  now.  What  a  leaf  it  is  from  the 
world-history  of  man  upon  the  planet !  Every 
race  has  splashed  it  with  blood  ;  every  faith 
has  cried  from  it  to  heaven.  It  is  only  a  hill- 
station  in  the  realm  of  empire  ;  but  in  the 
records  of  such  a  city,  lying  somewhat  aside 
and  out  of  common  vision,  the  course  of  human 
fate  may  be  more  simply  impressive  than  in 
the  story  of  world-cities.  Athens,  Rome,  Con- 
stantinople, London,  Paris,  are  great  centres  of 
history  ;  but  in  them  the  mind  is  confused  by 
the  multiplicity  and  awed  by  the  majesty  of 
events.  Here  on  this  bare  rock  there  is  no 
thronging  of  illustrious  names,  and  little  of 
that  glory  that  conceals  imperial  crime,  the 
massacre  of  armies,  and  the  people's  woe. 
Again  I  use  the  figure  :  it  is  like  a  rock  of 


60  HEART  OF   MAN 

the  sea,  set  here  in  the  midst  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean world,  washed  by  all  the  tides  of  his- 
tory, beat  on  by  every  pitiless  storm  of  the 
passion  of  man  for  blood.  The  torch  of  Greece, 
the  light  of  the  Cross,  the  streaming  portent  of 
the  Crescent,  have  shone  from  it,  each  in  its 
time ;  all  governments,  from  Greek  democracy 
to  Bourbon  tyranny,  have  ruled  it  in  turn  ; 
Roman  law  and  feudal  custom  had  it  in  charge, 
each  a  long  age  :  yet  civilization  in  all  its  his- 
toric forms  has  never  here  done  more,  seem- 
ingly, than  alleviate  at  moments  the  hard 
human  lot.  And  what  has  been  the  end  ?  Go 
down  into  the  streets  ;  go  out  into  the  vil- 
lages ;  go  into  the  country-side.  The  men 
will  hardly  look  up  from  their  burdens,  the 
women  will  seldom  stop  to  ask  alms,  but  you 
will  see  a  degradation  of  the  human  form  that 
speaks  not  of  the  want  of  individuals,  of  one 
generation,  or  of  an  age,  but  of  the  destitution 
of  centuries  stamped  physically  into  the  race. 
There  is,  as  always,  a  prosperous  class,  men 
well  to  do,  the  more  fortunate  and  better-born  ; 
but  the  common  people  lead  toilsome  lives,  and 
among  them  suffering  is  widespread.  Three 
thousand  years  of  human  life,  and  this  the 


TAORMINA  61 

result  !  Yet  I  see  many  indications  of  a  brave 
patriotism  in  the  community,  an  effort  to  im- 
prove general  conditions,  to  arouse,  to  stimu- 
late, to  encourage  —  the  spirit  of  free  and 
united  Italy  awakening  here,  too,  with  faith 
in  the  new  age  of  liberty  and  hope  of  its 
promised  blessings.  And  for  a  sign  there 
stands  in  the  centre  of  the  poor  fishing-village 
yonder  a  statue  of  Garibaldi. 

VI 

The  rain-cloud  is  gone.  The  days  are  bright, 
warm,  and  clear,  and  every  hour  tempts  me 
forth  to  wander  about  the  hills.  It  is  not 
spring,  but  the  hesitancy  that  holds  before  the 
season  changes;  yet  each  day  there  are  new 
flowers  —  not  our  delicate  wood  flowers,  but 
larger  and  coarser  of  fibre,  and  it  adds  a  charm 
to  them  that  I  do  not  know  their  names.  The 
trees  are  budding,  and  here  and  there,  like  a 
wave  breaking  into  foam  on  a  windless  sea, 
an  almond  has  burst  into  blossom,  white  and 
solitary  on  the  gray  slopes,  and  over  all  the 
orchards  there  is  the  faint  suggestion  of  pale 
pink,  felt  more  than  seen,  so  vague  is  it — 


52  HEAKT   OF   MAN 

but  it  is  there.  I  go  wandering  by  cliff  or 
sea-shore,  by  rocky  beds  of  running  water, 
under  dark-browed  caverns,  and  on  high  crags ; 
now  on  our  cape,  among  the  majestic  rocks,  I 
watch  the  swajdng  of  the  smooth  deep-violet 
waters  below,  changing  into  indigo  as  they 
lap  the  rough  clefts,  or  I  loiter  on  the  beach 
to  see  the  fishers  about  their  boats,  weather- 
worn mariners,  and  youths  in  the  fair  strength 
of  manly  beauty,  like  athletes  of  the  old  world: 
and  always  I  bring  back  something  for  memory, 
something  unforeseen . 

I  have  ever  found  this  uncertainty  a  rare 
pleasure  of  travel.  It  is  blessed  not  to  know 
what  the  gods  will  give.  I  remember  once  in 
other  days  I  left  the  beach  of  Amalfi  to  row 
away  to  the  isles  of  the  Sirens,  farther  down 
the  coast.  It  was  a  beautiful,  blowing,  wave- 
wild  morning,  and  I  strained  my  sight,  as  every 
headland  of  the  high  cliff-coast  was  rounded,  to 
catch  the  first  glimpse  of  the  low  isles ;  and 
there  came  by  a  country  boat-load  of  the  peas- 
ants, and  in  the  bows,  as  it  neared  and  passed, 
I  saw  a  dark,  black-haired  boy,  bare  breast,  and 
dreaming  eyes,  motionless  save  for  the  dipping 
prow  —  a  figure  out  of  old  Italian  pictures, 


TAOKMINA  53 

some  young  St.  John,  inexpressibly  beautiful. 
I  have  forgotten  how  the  isles  of  the  Sirens 
looked,  but  that  boy's  face  I  shall  never  forget. 
It  is  such  moments  that  give  the  Italy  of  the 
imagination  its  charm.  Here,  too,  I  have  simi- 
lar experiences.  A  day  or  two  ago,  when  the 
bright  weather  began,  I  was  threading  the  rough 
edge  of  a  broken  path  under  the  hill,  and  cling- 
ing to  the  rock  with  my  hand.  Suddenly  a 
figure  rose  just  before  me,  where  the  land  made 
out  a  little  farther  on  a  point  of  the  crag,  so 
strange  that  I  was  startled  ;  but  straightway  I 
knew  the  goatherd,  the  curling  locks,  the  olive 
face,  the  garments  of  goatskin  and  leather  on 
his  limbs.  It  came  on  me  like  a  flash  —  eccola 
the  country  of  Theocritus  ! 

I  have  never  seen  it  set  down  among  the  ad- 
vantages of  travel  that  one  learns  to  understand 
the  poets  better.  To  see  courts  and  govern- 
ments, manners  and  customs,  works  of  archi- 
tecture, statues  and  pictures  and  ruins  —  this, 
since  modern  travel  began,  is  to  make  the  grand 
tour  ;  but  though  I  have  diligently  sought  such 
obvious  and  common  aims,  and  had  my  reward, 
T  think  no  gain  so  great  as  that  I  never  thought 
of,  the  light  which  travel  sheds  upon  the  poets ; 


64  HEART   OF   MAN 

unless,  indeed,  I  should  except  that  stronger 
hold  on  the  reality  of  the  ideal  creations  of  the 
imagination  which  comes  from  familiar  life  with 
pictures,  and  statues,  and  kindred  physical  ren- 
derings of  art.  This  latter  advantage  must 
necessarily  be  more  narrowly  availed  of  by 
men,  since  it  implies  a  certain  peculiar  tem- 
perament ;  but  poetry,  in  its  less  exalted  forms, 
is  open  and  common  to  all  who  are  not  im- 
mersed in  the  materialism  of  their  own  lives, 
and  whatever  helps  to  unlock  the  poetic  treas- 
ures of  other  lands  for  our  possession  may  be 
an  important  part  of  life.  I  think  none  can 
fully  taste  the  sweetness,  or  behold  the  beauty, 
of  English  song  even,  until  he  has  wandered 
in  the  lanes  and  fields  of  the  mother-country ; 
and  in  the  case  of  foreign,  and  especially  of  the 
ancient,  poets,  so  much  of  whose  accepted  and 
assumed  world  of  fact  has  perished,  the  loss  is 
very  great.  I  had  trodden  many  an  Italian 
hillside  before  I  noticed  how  subtly  Dante's 
landscape  had  become  realized  in  my  mind  as 
a  part  of  nature.  I  own  to  believing  that 
Virgil's  storms  never  blew  on  the  sea  until 
once,  near  Salerno,  as  I  rode  back  from  Pses- 
tuin,  there  came  a  storm  over  the  wide  gulf 


TAORMINA  66 

that  held  my  eyes  enchanted  —  such  masses  of 
ragged,  full  clouds,  such  darkness  in  their 
broad  bosoms  broken  with  rapid  flame,  and  a 
change  beneath  so  swift,  such  anger  on  the 
sea,  such  an  indescribable  and  awful  gleaming 
hue,  not  purple,  nor  green,  nor  red,  but  a 
commingling  of  all  these — a  revelation  of  the 
wrath  of  colour  !  The  waves  were  wild  with 
the  fallen  tempest;  quick  and  heavy  the  surf 
came  thundering  on  the  sands ;  the  light  went 
out  as  if  it  were  extinguished,  and  the  dark 
rain  came  down ;  and  I  said,  "  'Tis  one  of 
Virgil's  storms."  Such  a  one  you  will  find 
also  in  Theocritus,  where  he  hymns  the  chil- 
dren of  Leda,  succourers  of  the  ships  that, 
"•  defying  the  stars  that  set  and  rise  in  heaven, 
have  encountered  the  perilous  breath  of  storms. 
The  winds  raise  huge  billows  about  their  stern, 
yea,  or  from  the  prow,  or  even  as  each  wind 
wills,  and  cast  them  into  the  hold  of  the  ship, 
and  shatter  both  bulwarks,  while  with  the  sail 
hangs  all  the  gear  confused  and  broken,  and 
the  wide  sea  rings,  being  lashed  by  the  gusts 
and  by  showers  of  iron  hail." 

I  must  leave  these  older  memories,  to  tell, 
so  far  as  it  is  possible  in  words,  of  that  laud 


66  HEART  OF  MAN 

of  the  idyl  which  of  all  enchanted  retreats  of 
the  imagination  is  the  hardest  for  him  without 
the  secret  to  enter.  Yet  here  I  find  it  all 
about  me  in  the  places  where  the  poets  first 
unveiled  it.  Once  before  I  had  a  sight  of  it, 
as  all  over  Italy  it  glimpses  at  times  from  the 
hills  and  the  campagna.  Descending  under 
the  high  peak  of  Capri,  I  heard  a  flute,  and 
turned  and  saw  on  the  neighbouring  slopes 
the  shepherd-boy  leading  his  flock,  the  music 
at  his  lips.  Then  the  centuries  rolled  together 
like  a  scroll,  and  I  heard  the  world's  morning 
notes.  That  was  a  single  moment ;  but  here, 
day-long  is  the  idyl  world.  I  read  the  old 
verses  over,  and  in  my  walks  the  song  keeps 
breaking  in.  The  idyls  are  full  of  streams 
and  fountains,  just  such  as  I  meet  with  wher- 
ever I  turn,  and  the  water  counts  in  the  land- 
scape as  in  the  poems.  It  is  always  tumbling 
over  rocks  in  cascades,  brawling  with  rounded 
forms  among  the  stones  of  the  shallow  brooks, 
bubbling  in  fountains,  or  dripping  from  the 
cliff,  or  shining  like  silver  in  the  plain.  The 
run  that  comes  down  from  Mola,  the  torrent 
under  the  olive  and  lemon  branches  toward 
Letojanni,  the  more  open  course  in  the  ra- 


TAORMINA  67 

vine  of  the  mill  down  by  Giardini,  the  cimeter 
of  the  far-seen  Alcantara  lying  on  the  cam- 
pagna  in  the  meadows,  and  that  further  fiume 
freddo,  the  cold  stream,  — "  chill  water  that 
for  me  deep-wooded  Etna  sends  down  from  the 
white  snow,  a  draught  divine,"  —  each  of  these 
seems  inhabited  by  a  genius  of  its  own,  so  that 
it  does  not  resemble  its  neighbours.  But  all 
alike  murmur  of  ancient  song,  and  bring  it 
near,  and  make  it  real. 

On  the  beach  one  feels  most  keenly  the  ac- 
tuality of  much  of  the  idyls,  and  finds  the  con- 
tinuousness  of  the  human  life  that  enters  into 
them.  No  idyl  appeals  so  directly  to  modern 
feeling,  I  suspect,  as  does  that  of  the  two  fisher- 
men and  the  dream  of  the  golden  fish.  Go 
down  to  the  shore ;  you  will  find  the  old  men 
still  at  their  toil,  the  same  implements,  the 
same  poverty,  the  same  sentiment  for  the  heart. 
Often  as  I  look  at  them  I  recall  the  old  words, 
while  the  goats  hang  their  heads  over  the  scant 
herbage,  and  the  blue  sea  breaks  lazily  and 
heavily  on  the  sands. 

"Two  fishers,  on  a  time,  two  old  men,  to- 
gether lay  and  slept ;  they  had  strewn  the 


68  HEART   OF   MAN 

dry  sea-moss  for  a  bed  in  their  wattled  cabin, 
and  there  lay  against  the  leafy  wall.  Beside 
them  were  strewn  the  instruments  of  their  toil- 
some hands,  the  fishing-creels,  the  rods  of  reed, 
the  hooks,  the  sails  bedraggled  with  sea-spoil, 
the  lines,  the  weels,  the  lobster-pots  woven  of 
rushes,  the  seines,  two  oars,  and  an  old  cobble 
upon  props.  Beneath  their  heads  was  a  scanty 
matting,  their  clothes,  their  sailors'  caps.  Here 
was  all  their  toil,  here  all  their  wealth.  The 
threshold  had  never  a  door  nor  a  watch-dog. 
All  things,  all,  to  them  seemed  superfluity,  for 
Poverty  was  their  sentinel ;  they  had  no  neigh- 
bour by  them,  but  ever  against  their  narrow 
cabin  gently  floated  up  the  sea." 

This  is  what  the  eye  beholds ;  and  I  dare  not 
say  that  the  idyl  is  touched  more  with  the  mel- 
ancholy of  human  fate  for  us  than  for  the  poet. 
Poverty  such  as  this,  so  absolute,  I  see  every- 
where at  every  hour.  It  is  a  terrible  sight.  It 
is  the  physical  hunger  of  the  soul  in  wan  limbs 
and  hand,  and  the  fixed  gaze  of  the  unhoping 
eyes  —  despair  made  flesh.  How  long  has  it  suf- 
fered here  ?  and  was  it  so  when  Theocritus  saw 
his  fishers  and  gave  them  a  place  in  the  country 


TAORMINA  69 

of  his  idyls  ?  He  spreads  before  us  the  hills  and 
fountains,  and  fills  the  scene  with  shepherds, 
and  maidens,  and  laughing  loves,  and  among 
the  rest  are  these  two  poor  old  men.  The 
shadow  of  the  world's  poverty  falls  on  this 
paradise  now  as  then.  With  the  rock  and  sea 
it,  too,  endures. 

A  few  traces  of  the  old  myths  also  survive 
on  the  landscape.  Not  far  from  here,  down  the 
coast,  the  rocks  that  the  Cyclops  threw  after 
the  fleeing  mariners  are  still  to  be  seen  near  the 
shore  above  which  he  piped  to  Galatea.  Some 
day  I  mean  to  take  a  boat  and  see  them.  But 
now  I  let  the  Cyclops  idyls  go,  and  with  them 
Adonis  of  Egypt,  and  Ptolemy,  and  the  prattling 
women,  and  the  praises  of  Hiero,  and  the  deeds 
of  Herakles :  these  all  belong  to  the  cities  of 
the  pastoral,  to  its  civilization  and  art  in  more 
conscious  forms  ;  but  my  heart  stays  in  the  cam- 
pagna,  where  are  the  song-contests,  the  amor- 
ous praise  of  maidens,  the  boyish  boasting,  the 
young,  sweet,  graceful  loves.  Fain  would  I  re- 
cover the  breath  of  that  springtime  ;  but  while 
from  my  foot  "  every  stone  upon  the  way  spins 
singing,"  make  what  speed  I  can,  I  come  not 
to  the  harvest-feast.  Bees  go  booming  among 


60  HEART  OF  MAN 

the  blossoms,  and  the  flocks  crop  their  pasture, 
and  night  falls  with  Hesperus  ;  but  fruitless  on 
my  lips,  as  at  some  shrine  whence  the  god  is 
gone,  is  Bion's  prayer :  "  Hesperus,  golden 
lamp  of  the  lovely  daughter  of  the  foam  —  dear 
Hesperus,  sacred  jewel  of  the  deep  blue  night, 
dimmer  as  much  than  the  moon  as  thou  art 
among  the  stars  preeminent,  hail,  friend ! " 
Dead  now  is  that  ritual.  Now  more  silent  than 
ever  is  the  country-side,  missing  Daphnis,  the 
flower  of  all  those  who  sing  when  the  heart  is 
young.  Sweet  was  his  flute's  first  triumph 
over  Menalcas  :  "  Then  was  the  boy  glad,  and 
leaped  high,  and  clapped  his  hands  over  his 
victory,  as  a  young  fawn  leaps  about  his 
mother  "  ;  but  sweeter  was  the  unwon  victory 
when  he  strove  with  Damcetas :  "  Then  Da- 
moetas  kissed  Daphnis,  as  he  ended  his  song, 
and  he  gave  Daphnis  a  pipe,  and  Daphnis  gave 
him  a  beautiful  flute.  Damoetas  fluted,  and 
Daphnis  piped;  the  herdsmen,  and  anon  the 
calves,  were  dancing  in  the  soft  green  grass. 
Neither  won  the  victory,  but  both  were  in- 
vincible." And  him,  too,  I  miss  who  loved 
his  friend,  and  wished  that  they  twain  might 
"become  a  song  in  the  ears  of  all  men  un- 


TAOEMINA  «1 

born,"  even  for  their  love's  sake  ;  and  prayed, 
"  Would,  O  Father  Cronides,  and  would,  ye 
ageless  immortals,  that  this  might  be,  and  that 
when  two  generations  have  sped,  one  might 
bring  these  tidings  to  me  by  Acheron,  the  ir- 
remeable stream  :  the  loving-kindness  that  was 
between  thee  and  thy  gracious  friend  is  even 
now  in  all  men's  mouths,  and  chiefly  on  the 
lips  of  the  young."  Hill  and  fountain  and 
pine,  the  gray  sea  and  Mother  Etna,  are  here  ; 
but  no  children  gather  in  the  land,  as  once 
about  the  tomb  of  Diocles  at  the  coming  in 
of  the  spring,  contending  for  the  prize  of  the 
kisses  —  "  Whoso  most  sweetly  touches  lip  to 
lip,  laden  with  garlands  he  returneth  to  his 
mother.  Happy  is  he  who  judges  those  kisses 
of  the  children."  Lost  over  the  bright  furrows 
of  the  sea  is  Europa  riding  on  the  back  of  the 
divine  bull  as  Moschus  beheld  her  —  "With 
one  hand  she  clasped  the  beast's  great  horn, 
and  with  the  other  caught  up  the  purple  fold 
of  her  garment,  lest  it  might  trail  and  be  wet 
in  the  hoar  sea's  infinite  spray " ;  and  from 
the  border-land  of  mythic  story,  that  was  then 
this  world's  horizon,  yet  more  faintly  the  fading 
voice  of  Hylas  answers  the  deep-throated  shout 


62  HEART   OF    MAN 

of  Herakles.  Faint  now  as  his  voice  are  the 
voices  of  the  shepherds  who  are  gone,  youth 
and  maiden  and  children ;  dimly  I  see  them, 
vaguely  I  hear  them ;  at  last  there  remains 
only  "the  hoar  sea's  infinite  spray."  And  will 
you  say  it  was  in  truth  all  a  dream  ?  Were 
the  poor  fishermen  in  their  toil  alone  real,  and 
the  rest  airy  nothings  to  whom  Sicily  gave  a 
local  habitation  and  a  name  ?  It  was  Virgil's 
dream  and  Spenser's ;  and  some  secret  there 
was  —  something  still  in  our  breasts  —  that 
made  it  immortal,  so  that  to  name  the  Sicilian 
Muses  is  to  stir  an  infinite,  longing  tenderness 
in  every  young  and  noble  heart  that  the  gods 
have  softened  with  sweet  thoughts. 

And  here  I  shut  in  my  pages  the  one  laurel 
leaf  that  Taormina  bore.  She,  too,  in  her  cen- 
turies has  had  her  poet.  Perhaps  none  who 
will  see  these  words  ever  gave  a  thought  to 
the  name  and  fame  of  Cornelius  Severus.  Few 
of  his  works  remain,  and  little  is  known  of  his 
life.  He  is  said  to  have  been  the  friend  of  Pol- 
lio,  and  to  have  been  present  in  the  Sicilian  war 
between  Augustus  and  Sextus  Pompey.  He 
wrote  the  first  book  of  an  epic  poem  on  that 
subject,  so  excellent  that  it  has  been  thought 


TAORMINA  63 

that,  had  the  entire  work  been  continued  at  the 
same  level,  he  would  have  held  the  second 
place  among  the  Latin  epic  poets.  He  wrote 
also  heroic  songs,  of  which  fragments  survive, 
one  of  which  is  an  elegy  upon  Cicero,  which 
Seneca  quotes,  saying  of  him,  "  No  one  out  of 
so  many  talented  men  deplored  the  death  of 
Cicero  better  than  Cornelius  Severus."  Some 
dialogues  in  verse  also  seem  to  have  been  writ- 
ten by  him.  These  fragments  may  not  be  easily 
obtained.  But  take  down  your  Virgil  ;  and,  if  it 
be  like  this  of  mine  which  I  brought  from  Rome, 
you  will  find  at  the  very  end,  last  of  the  shorter 
pieces  ascribed  to  the  poet,  one  of  the  length 
of  a  book  of  the  "  Georgics,"  called  "Etna." 
This  is  the  work  of  Cornelius  Severus.  An 
early  death  took  from  him  the  perfection  of  his 
genuis  and  the  hope  of  fame  ;  but  happy  was 
the  fortune  of  him  who  wrote  so  well  that  for 
centuries  his  lines  were  thought  not  unworthy 
of  Virgil,  whose  name  still  shields  this  Taor- 
minian  verse  from  oblivion. 

VII 

It  is  my  last  day  at  Taormina.     I  have  seen 
the  sunrise  from  my  old  station  by  the  Greek 


64  HEART   OF   MAN 

temple,  and  watched  the  throng  of  cattle  and 
men  gathered  on  the  distant  beach  of  Letojanni 
and  darkening  the  broad  bed  of  the  dry  torrent 
that  there  makes  down  to  the  sea,  and  I  wished 
I  were  among  them,  for  it  is  their  annual  fair  ; 
and  still  I  dwell  on  every  feature  of  the  land- 
scape that  familiarity  has  made  more  beautiful. 
The  afternoon  I  have  dedicated  to  a  walk  to 
Mola.  It  is  a  pleasant,  easy  climb,  with  the 
black  ancient  wall  of  the  city  on  the  left,  where 
it  goes  up  the  face  of  the  castle-rock,  and  on  the 
right  the  deep  ravine,  closed  by  Monte  Venere 
in  the  west.  All  is  very  quiet ;  a  silent,  silent 
country  !  There  are  few  birds  or  none,  and 
indeed  I  have  heard  no  bird-song  since  I  have 
been  here.  Opposite,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
wall  of  the  ravine,  are  some  cows  hanging  in 
strange  fashion  to  the  cliff,  where  it  seems 
goats  could  hardly  cling  ;  but  the  unwieldy, 
awkward  creatures  move  with  sure  feet,  and 
seem  wholly  at  home,  pasturing  on  the  bare 
precipice.  I  cannot  hear  the  torrent,  now  a 
narrow  stream,  deep  below  me,  but  I  see  the 
women  of  Mola  washing  by  the  old  fountain 
which  is  its  source.  There  is  no  other  sign  of 
human  life.  The  fresh  spring  flowers,  large  and 


TAORMINA  65 

coarse,  but  bright-coloured,  are  all  I  have  of 
company,  and  the  sky  is  blue  and  the  air  like 
crystal.  So  I  go  up,  ever  up,  and  at  last  am 
by  the  gate  of  Mola,  and  enter  the  stony-hearted 
town.  A  place  more  dreary,  desolate  to  the 
eye,  is  seldom  seen.  There  are  only  low,  mean 
houses  of  gray  stone,  and  the  paved  ways.  If 
you  can  fancy  a  prison  turned  inside  out  like  a 
glove,  with  all  its  interior  stone  exposed  to  the 
sunlight,  which  yet  seems  sunlight  in  a  prison, 
and  silence  over  all  —  that  is  Mola.  The  ruins 
of  the  fortress  are  near  the  gate  on  the  high- 
est point  of  the  crag.  Within  is  a  barren  spot 
—  a  cistern,  old  foundations,  and  some  broken 
walls.  Look  over  the  battlement  westward, 
and  you  will  see  a  precipice  that  one  thinks 
only  birds  could  assail ;  and,  observing  how 
isolated  is  the  crag  on  all  sides,  you  will  under- 
stand what  an  inaccessible  fastness  this  was,  and 
cannot  be  surprised  at  its  record  of  defence. 

Perhaps  here  was  the  oldest  dwelling-place 
of  man  upon  the  hill,  and  it  was  the  securest 
retreat.  Monsignore,  indeed,  believes  that  Ham, 
the  son  of  Noah,  who  drove  Japhet  out  of  Sicily, 
was  the  first  builder  ;  but  I  do  not  doubt  its 
antiquity  was  very  great,  and  it  seems  likely 


66  HEART   OF   MAN 

that  this  was  the  original  Siculian  stronghold 
before  the  coming  of  the  Greeks,  and  the  build- 
ing of  the  lower  city  of  Taormina.  The  ruins 
that  exist  are  part  of  the  fortress  made  by  that 
governor  who  lost  the  city  to  the  Saracens,  to 
defend  it  against  them  on  this  side  ;  and  here 
it  stood  for  nigh  a  thousand  years,  like  the 
citadel  itself,  an  impregnable  hold  of  war.  It 
seldom  yielded,  and  always  by  treachery  or 
mutiny  ;  for  more  than  once,  when  Taormina 
was  sacked,  its  citadel  and  Mola  remained 
untaken  and  unconquerable  on  their  extreme 
heights.  I  shall  not  tell  its  story  ;  but  one 
brave  man  once  commanded  here,  and  his  name 
shall  be  its '  fame  now,  and  my  last  tale  of  the 
Taorminian  past. 

He  was  Count  Matteo,  a  nobleman  of  the 
days  when  the  Messenians  revolted  against  the 
chancellor  of  Queen  Margaret.  He  was  placed 
over  this  castle ;  and  when  a  certain  Count 
Riccardo  was  discovered  in  a  conspiracy  to 
murder  the  chancellor,  and  was  taken  captive, 
he  was  given  into  Matteo's  charge,  and  impris- 
oned here.  The  Messenians  came  and  surprised 
the  lower  city  of  Taormina,  but  they  could  not 
gain  Mola  nor  persuade  Matteo  to  yield  Ric- 


TAORMINA  67 

cardo  up  to  them.  So  they  thought  to  over- 
come his  fidelity  cruelly.  They  took  his  wife 
and  children,  who  were  at  Messina,  threw  them 
into  a  dungeon,  and  condemned  them  to  death. 
Then  they  sent  Matteo's  brother-in-law  to  treat 
with  him.  But  when  the  count  knew  the  rea- 
son of  the  visit  he  said  :  "  It  seems  to  me  that 
you  little  value  the  zeal  of  an  honest  man  who, 
loyal  to  his  office,  does  not  wish,  neither  knows 
how,  to  break  his  sworn  faith.  My  wife  and 
children  would  look  on  me  with  scornful  eyes 
should  I  be  renegade  ;  for  shame  is  not  the  re- 
ward that  sweetens  life,  but  burdens  it.  If 
the  Messenians  stain  themselves  with  innocent 
blood,  I  shall  weep  for  the  death  of  my  wife 
and  sons,  but  the  heart  of  an  honest  citizen 
will  have  no  remorse."  Then  he  was  silent. 
But  treachery  could  do  what  such  threats  failed 
to  accomplish.  One  Gavaretto  was  found,  who 
unlocked  the  prison,  and  Riccardo  was  already 
escaping  when  Matteo,  roused  at  a  slight  noise, 
came,  sword  in  hand,  and  would  have  slain  him  ; 
but  the  traitor  behind,  "  to  save  his  wages," 
struck  Matteo  in  the  body,  and  the  faithful  count 
fell  dead  in  his  blood.  I  thought  of  this  story, 
standing  there,  and  nothing  else  in  the  castle's 


68  HEART  OF   MAN 

legend  seemed  worthy  of  memory  in  compari- 
son, from  its  mystic  beginning  until  that  night, 
near  two  centuries  ago,  when  the  thunderbolt 
fell  on  it,  igniting  its  store  of  powder,  and  blew 
it  utterly  to  fragments  with  a  great  explosion. 
The  castle  of  Taormina  on  the  eastward 
height  is  easily  reached  by  a  ridge  that  runs 
toward  it  on  the  homeward  track.  Along  the 
way  are  seen  the  caves  so  often  mentioned  in 
the  records  of  the  city  as  the  refuge  of  the  peo- 
ple in  times  of  disaster.  The  castle  itself,  much 
larger  and  more  important  than  Mola,  is  wholly 
in  ruins.  The  walls  stand,  with  some  broken 
stairways,  and  a  room  or  two,  massive  and 
desolate,  remains.  Of  its  history  I  have  found 
no  particular  mention,  but  here  must  always 
have  been  the  citadel.  Once  more  from  its 
open  platform  I  gazed  on  the  fair  country  it 
had  guarded,  while  the  snows  of  Etna  began  to 
be  touched  with  sunset ;  and  as  my  hand  lay 
on  the  ruined  battlement,  for  which  how  many 
thousand  died  bloody  deaths,  again  the  long 
past  rose  from  the  rock.  I  saw  the  young 
Greeks  raising  Apollo's  altar  by  the  river-bank. 
I  saw  Dionysius  in  the  winter  night,  staining 
the  snow  from  the  wound  in  his  breast  as  he 


TAORMINA  69 

fled  down  the  darkness,  and  the  Norman  sol- 
dier dying  for  Roger  beneath  the  cimeters  by 
the  young  myrtles.  I  saw  the  citizens  in  the 
market-place  overthrowing  Verres'  statue,  the 
monk  Elia  with  his  lifted  garment,  the  bishop 
in  his  murder  before  Ibrahim.  I  wondered  at 
the  little  port  that  was  large  enough  to  hold 
the  fleets  of  Athens,  of  Carthage,  and  of  Au- 
gustus, and  at  the  strip  of  beach  trodden  by  so 
many  famous  men  on  heroic  enterprises.  There 
the  fishers  were  drawing  up  their  boats,  coming 
home  at  the  day's  close  from  that  toil  of  the  sea 
which  has  outlived  gods  and  martyrs  and  em- 
pires. The  snows  of  Etna  were  now  aflame  with 
sunset,  and  the  high  clouds  trembled  with  swift 
and  mighty  radiance,  and  league  after  league 
the  sea  took  on  the  pale  rose-colour.  Descend- 
ing, I  passed  through  the  dark  cleft  between 
the  castle  and  the  silent,  deserted  church  of  the 
hermitage  by  its  side,  and,  in  a  moment,  again 
the  vision  burst  on  me,  and  in  its  glow  I  went 
down  the  rock-face  by  the  terraces  under  al- 
mond blossoms.  Softly  the  sea  changed  through 
every  tender  colour,  bathing  beach  and  headland, 
and  strange  lights  fell  upon  the  crags  from  the 
mild  heaven,  and  all  the  Taorminian  land  was 


70  HEART   OF   MAN 

filled  with  bloom ;  then  the  infinite  beauty, 
slowly  fading,  withdrew  the  scene,  and  sweetly 
it  parted  from  my  eyes. 

VIII 

Yet  once  more  I  step  out  upon  the  terrace 
into  the  night.  I  hear  the  long  roar  of  the 
breakers  ;  I  see  the  flickering  fishers'  lights, 
and  Etna  pale  under  the  stars.  The  place  is 
full  of  ghosts.  In  the  darkness  I  seem  to  hear 
vaguely  arising,  half  sense,  half  thought,  the 
murmur  of  many  tongues  that  have  perished 
here,  Sicanian  and  Siculian  and  the  lost  Oscan, 
Greek  and  Latin  and  the  hoarse  jargon  of  bar- 
baric slaves,  Byzantine  and  Arabic  confused 
with  strange  African  dialects,  Norman  and 
Sicilian,  French  and  Spanish,  mingling,  blend- 
ing, changing,  the  sharp  battle-cry  of  a  thou- 
sand assaults  rising  from  the  low  ravines,  the 
death-cry  of  twenty  bloody  massacres  within 
these  walls,  ringing  on  the  hard  rock  and  fall- 
ing to  silence  only  to  rise  more  full  with  fiercer 
pain  —  century  after  century  of  the  battle-wrath 
and  the  battle- woe.  My  fancy  shapes  the  air 
till  I  see  over  the  darkly  lifted  castle-rock  the 


TAORMINA  71 

triple  crossing  swords  of  Greek,  Carthaginian, 
and  Roman  in  the  age-long  duel,  and  as  these 
fade,  the  springing  brands  of  Byzantine,  Arab, 
and  Norman,  and  yet  again  the  heavy  blades  of 
France,  Spain,  and  Sicily  ;  and  ever,  like  rain 
or  snow,  falls  the  bloody  dew  on  this  lone  hill- 
side. "  Oh,  wherefore  ?  "  I  whisper  ;  and  all  is 
silent  save  the  surge  still  lifting  round  the 
coast  the  far  voices  of  the  old  Ionian  sea.  I 
have  wondered  that  the  children  of  Etna  should 
dwell  in  its  lovely  paradise,  as  I  thought  how 
often,  how  terribly,  the  lava  has  poured  forth 
upon  it,  the  shower  of  ashes  fallen,  the  black 
horror  of  volcanic  eruption  overwhelmed  the 
land.  Yet,  sum  it  all,  pang  by  pang,  all  that 
Etna  ever  wrought  of  woe  to  the  sons  of  men, 
the  agonies  of  her  burnings,  the  terrors  of  her 
living  entombments,  all  her  manifold  deaths 
at  once,  and  what  were  it  in  comparison  with 
the  blood  that  has  flowed  on  this  hillside,  the 
slaughter,  the  murder,  the  infinite  pain  here 
suffered  at  the  hands  of  man.  O  Etna,  it  is 
not  thou  that  man  should  fear  !  He  should 
fear  his  brother-man. 


72  HEART  OF  MAN 

IX 

The  stars  were  paling  over  Etna,  white  and 
ghostly,  as  I  came  out  to  depart.  In  the  dark 
street  I  met  a  woman  with  a  young  boy  cling- 
ing to  her  side.  Her  black  hair  fell  down 
over  her  shoulders,  and  her  bosom  was  scantily 
clothed  by  the  poor  garment  that  fell  to  her 
ankles  and  her  feet.  She  was  still  young,  and 
from  her  dark,  sad  face  her  eyes  met  mine  with 
that  fixed  look  of  the  hopeless  poor,  now  grown 
familiar  ;  the  child,  half  naked,  gazed  up  at  me 
as  he  held  his  mother's  hand.  What  brought 
her  there  at  that  hour,  alone  with  her  child  ? 
She  seemed  the  epitome  of  the  human  life  I 
was  leaving  behind,  come  forth  to  bid  farewell ; 
and  she  passed  on  under  the  shadows  of  the 
dawn.  The  last  star  faded  as  I  went  down 
the  hollow  between  the  spurs.  Etna  gleamed 
white  and  vast  over  the  shoulder  of  the  ravine, 
and,  as  I  dipped  down,  was  gone. 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY 


A  NEW   DEFENCE  OF  POETRY 

• 

THERE  was  an  old  cry,  Return  to  Nature ! 
Let  us  rather  return  unto  the  soul.  Nature  is 
great,  and  her  science  marvellous;  but  it  is  man 
who  knows  it.  In  what  he  knows  it  is  partial 
and  subsidiary.  Know  thyself,  was  the  first 
command  of  reason ;  and  wisdom  was  an  ancient 
thing  when  the  sweet  influences  of  the  Pleiades 
and  the  path  of  Arcturus  with  his  sons  were 
young  in  human  thought.  These  late  con- 
quests of  the  mind  in  the  material  infinities  of 
the  universe,  its  exploring  of  stellar  space,  its 
exhuming  of  secular  time,  its  harnessing  of  in- 
visible forces,  this  new  mortal  knowledge,  its 
sudden  burst,  its  brilliancy  and  amplitude  of 
achievement,  thought  winnowing  the  world 
as  with  a  fan  ;  the  vivid  spectacle  of  vast  and 
beneficent  changes  wrought  by  this  means 
in  human  welfare,  the  sense  of  the  increase  of 
man's  power  springing  from  unsuspected  and 
illimitable  resources,  —  all  this  has  made  us 
76 


76  HEART  OF   MAN 

forgetful  of  truth  that  is  the  oldest  heirloom  of 
the  race.  In  the  balances  of  thought  the  soul 
of  man  outweighs  the  mass  that  gravitation 
measures.  Man  only  is  of  prime  interest  to 
men ;  and  man  as  a  spirit,  a  creature  but  made 
in  the  likeness  of  gomething  divine.  The  lapse 
of  aeons  touches  us  as  little  as  the  reach  of 
space;  even  the  building  of  our  planet,  and 
man's  infancy,  have  the  faint  and  distant  reality 
of  cradle  records.  Science  may  reconstruct  the 
inchoate  body  of  animal  man,  the  clay  of  our 
mould,  and  piece  together  the  primitive  skeleton 
of  the  physical  being  we  now  wear;  but  the 
mind  steadily  refuses  to  recognize  a  human  past 
without  some  discipline  in  the  arts,  some  exer- 
cise in  rude  virtue,  and  some  proverbial  lore 
handed  down  from  sire  to  son.  The  tree  of 
knowledge  is  of  equal  date  with  the  tree  of  life; 
nor  were  even  the  tamer  of  horses,  the  worker 
in  metals,  or  the  sower,  elder  than  those  twin 
guardians  of  the  soul, — the  poet  and  the  priest. 
Conscience  and  imagination  were  the  pioneers 
who  made  earth  habitable  for  the  human  spirit ; 
they  are  still  its  lawgivers;  and  where  they 
have  lodged  their  treasures,  there  is  wisdom. 
I  desire  to  renew  the  long  discussion  of  the 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  77 

nature  and  method  of  idealism  by  engaging  in 
a  new  defence  of  poetry,  or  the  imaginative  art 
in  any  of  its  kinds,  as  the  means  by  which  this 
wisdom,  which  is  the  soul's  knowledge  of  itself, 
is  stored  up  for  the  race  in  its  most  manifest, 
enduring,  and  vital  forms.  It  is,  by  literary 
tradition  and  association,  a  proud  task.  May 
I  not  take  counsel  of  Spenser  and  be  bold  at 
the  first  door  ?  Sidney  and  Shelley  pleaded 
this  cause.  Because  they  spoke,  must  we  be 
dumb  ?  or  shall  not  a  noble  example  be  put  to 
its  best  use  in  trying  what  truth  can  now  do 
on  younger  lips?  The  old  hunt  is  up  in  the 
Muses'  bower ;  and  I  would  fain  speak  for  that 
learning  which  has  to  me  been  light.  I  use 
this  preface  not  unwillingly  in  open  loyalty  to 
studies  on  which  my  youth  was  nourished,  and 
the  masters  I  then  loved  whom  the  natural 
thoughts  of  youth  made  eloquent ;  my  hope  is 
to  continue  their  finer  breath,  as  they  before 
drank  from  old  fountains ;  but  chiefly  I  name 
them  as  a  reminder  that  the  main  argument  is 
age-long ;  it  does  not  harden  into  accepted 
dogma ;  and  it  is  thus  ceaselessly  tossed  be- 
cause it  belongs  in  that  sphere  of  our  warring 
nature  where  conflict  is  perpetual.  It  goes  on 


78  HEART  OF   MAN 

in  the  lives  as  well  as  on  the  lips  of  men.  It 
is  a  question  how  to  live  as  well  as  how  to  ex- 
press life.  Each  race  uses  its  own  tongue, 
each  age  its  dialect ;  but,  change  the  language 
as  man  may,  he  ever  remains  the  questioner  of 
his  few  great  thoughts. 

The  defenders  of  the  soul  inherit  an  old 
cause  that  links  them  together  in  a  long  de- 
scent ;  but  the  battle  is  always  to  a  present 
age.  Continually  something  is  becoming  su- 
perfluous, inapplicable,  or  wanting  in  the  work 
of  the  past.  Victory  itself  makes  arms  useless, 
and  consigns  them  to  dark  closets.  New  times, 
new  weapons,  is  the  history  of  all  warfare. 
The  doubt  of  the  validity  of  the  ideal,  never 
absent  from  any  intellectual  period,  is  active  on 
all  sides,  and  in  more  than  one  quarter  passes 
into  denial.  Literature  and  the  other  arts  of 
expression  suffer  throughout  the  world.  To 
that  point  is  it  come  that  those  of  the  old  stock 
who  believe  that  the  imagination  exercises 
man's  faculty  at  its  highest  pitch,  and  that  the 
method  of  idealism  is  its  law,  are  bid  step  down, 
while  others  more  newly  grounded  in  what  be- 
longs to  literature  possess  the  city ;  but  seeing 
the  shrines  interdicted,  the  obliteration  of 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  79 

ancient  names,  the  heroes'  statues  thrown  down, 
shall  we  learn  what  our  predecessors  never 
knew  —  to  abdicate  and  abandon?  I  hear  in 
the  temples  the  footsteps  of  the  departing 
gods  — 

Di  quibus  iraperium  hoc  steterat ; 

but  no ;  for  our  opponents  are  worse  off  than 
those  of  whom  it  was  said  that  though  one  rose 
from  the  dead  they  would  not  believe,  —  Plato, 
being  dead,  yet  speaks,  Shal^spere  treads  our 
boards,  and  (why  should  I  hesitate?)  Tenny- 
j3on_  yet  breathes  among  us  though  already 
immortal.  That  which  convinced  the  master 
minds  of  antiquity  and  many  in  later  ages  is 
still  convincing,  if  it  be  attended  to ;  the  old 
tradition  is  yet  unbroken  ;  therefore,  because  I 
was  bred  in  this  faith,  I  will  try  to  set  forth 
anew  in  the  phrases  of  our  time  the  eternal 
ground  of  reason  on  which  idealism  rests. 

The  specific  question  concerns  literature  and 
its  method,  but  its  import  is  not  mainly  literary. 
Life  is  the  matter  of  literature ;  and  thence 
it  comes  that  all  leading  inquiries  to  which 
literature  gives  rise  probe  for  their  premises 
to  the  roots  of  our  being  and  expand  in  their 


80  HEART  OF  MAN 

issues  to  the  unknown  limits  of  human  fate. 
It  is  an  error  to  think  of  idealism  as  a  thing 
remote,  fantastic,  and  unsubstantial.  It  enters 
intimately  into  the  lives  of  all  men,  however 
humble  and  unlearned,  if  they  live  at  all 
except  in  their  bodies.  What  is  here  pro- 
posed is  neither  speculative,  technical,  nor 
abstruse  ;  it  is  practical  in  matter,  universal  in 
interest,  and  touches  upon  those  things  which 
men  most  should  heed.  I  fear  rather  to  incur 
the  reproach  of  uttering  truisms  than  para- 
doxes. But  he  does  ill  who  is  scornful  of 
the  trite.  To  be  learned  in  commonplaces  is 
no  mean  education.  They  make  up  the  great 
body  of  the  people's  knowledge.  They  are 
the  living  words  upon  the  lips  of  men  from 
generation  to  generation  ;  the  real  winged 
words ;  the  matter  of  the  unceasing  reitera- 
tion of  families,  schools,  pulpits,  libraries  ;  the 
tradition  of  mankind.  Proverb,  text,  homily, 
—  happy  the  youth  whose  purse  is  stored  with 
these  broad  pieces,  current  in  every  country  and 
for  every  good,  like  fairy  gifts  of  which  the 
occasion  only  when  it  arises  shows  the  use. 
It  is  with  truth  as  with  beauty,  —  familiarity 
endears  and  makes  it  more  precious.  What  is 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  81 

common  is  for  that  very  reason  in  danger  of 
neglect,  and  from  it  often  flashes  that  divine 
surprise  which  most  enkindles  the  soul.  Why 
must  Prometheus  bring  fire  from  heaven  to 
savage  man  ?  Did  it  not  sleep  in  the  flint  at 
his  feet  ?  How  often,  at  the  master  stroke  of 
life,  has  some  text  of  Holy  Scripture,  which  lay 
in  the  mind  from  childhood  almost  like  the 
debris  of  memory,  illuminated  the  remorseful 
darkness  of  the  mind,  or  interpreted  the  sweet- 
ness of  God's  sunshine  in  the  happy  heart  ! 
Common  as  light  is  love,  sang  Shelley ;  and 
equally  common  with  beauty  and  truth  and 
love  is  all  that  is  most  vital  to  the  soul,  all  that 
feeds  it  and  gives  it  power  ;  if  aught  be  lack- 
ing, it  is  the  eye  to  see  and  the  heart  to  under- 
stand. Grain,  fruit  and  vegetable,  wool,  silk 
and  cotton,  gold,  silver  and  iron,  steam  and 
electricity,  —  were  not  all,  like  the  spark, 
within  arm's  reach  of  savage  man  ?  The  slow 
material  progress  of  mankind  through  ages  is 
paralleled  by  the  slow  growth  of  the  individual 
soul  in  laying  hold  of  and  putting  to  use  the 
resources  of  spiritual  strength  that  are  nigh 
unto  it.  The  service  of  man  to  man  in  the 
ways  of  the  spirit  is,  in  truth,  an  act  as  simple 


82  HEART  OF  MAN 

as  the  giving  of  a  cup  of  cold  water  to  him 
who  is  athirst. 

Can  there  be  any  surprise  when  I  say  that 
the  method  of  idealism  is  that  of  all  thought  ? 
that  in  its  intellectual  process  the  art  of  the 
poet,  so  far  from  being  a  sort  of  incantation,  is 
the  same  as  belongs  to  the  logician,  the  chemist, 
the  statesman  ?  It  is  no  more  than  to  say  that 
in  creating  literature  the  mind  acts  ;  the  action 
of  the  mind  is  thought ;  and  there  are  no  more 
two  ways  of  thinking  than  there  are  two  kinds 
of  gravitation.  Experience  is  the  matter  of 
all  knowledge.  It  is  given  to  the  mind  as  a 
complex  of  particular  facts,  a  series,  ever  con- 
tinuing, of  impressions  outward  and  inward. 
It  is  stored  in  the  memory,  and  were  memory 
the  only  mental  faculty,  no  other  knowledge 
than  this  of  particular  facts  in  their  temporal 
sequence  could  be  acquired  ;  the  sole  method 
of  obtaining  knowledge  would  be  by  observa- 
tion. All  literature  would  then  be  merely 
annals  of  the  contents  of  successive  moments 
in  their  order.  Reason,  however,  intervenes. 
Its  process  is  well  known.  In  every  object  of 
perception,  as  it  exists  in  the  physical  world 
and  is  given  by  sensation  to  our  consciousness, 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  83 

there  is  both  in  itself  and  in  its  relations  a 
likeness  to  other  objects  and  relations,  and  this 
likeness  the  mind  takes  notice  of ;  it  thus 
analyzes  the  complex  of  experience,  discerns 
the  common  element,  and  by  this  means  classi- 
fies particular  facts,  thereby  condensing  them 
into  mental  conceptions,  —  abstract  ideas,  for- 
mulas, laws.  The  mind  arrives  at  these  in  the 
course  of  its  normal  operation.  As  soon  as  we 
think  at  all,  we  speak  of  white  and  black,  of 
bird  and  beast,  of  distance  and  size,  —  of  uni- 
formities in  the  behaviour  of  nature,  or  laws ; 
by  such  classification  of  qualities,  objects,  and 
various  relations,  not  merely  in  the  sensuous 
but  in  every  sphere  of  our  consciousness,  the 
mind  simplifies  its  experience,  compacts  its 
knowledge,  and  economizes  its  energies.  To 
this  work  it  brings,  also,  the  method  of  ex- 
periment. It  then  interferes  arbitrarily  with 
the  natural  occurrence  of  facts,  and  brings 
that  to  pass  which  otherwise  would  not  have 
been ;  and  this  method  it  uses  to  investigate, 
to  illustrate  what  was  previously  known,  and 
to  confirm  what  was  surmised.  Its  end, 
whether  through  observation  or  experiment, 
is  to  reach  general  truth  as  opposed  to  matter- 


84  HEART  OF  MAN 

of-fact,  universals  more  or  less  embracing  as 
opposed  to  particulars,  the  units  of  thought 
as  opposed  to  the  units  of  phenomena.  The 
body  of  these  constitutes  rational  knowledge. 
Nature  then  becomes  known,  not  as  a  series 
of  impressions  on  the  retina  of  sense  merely, 
but  as  a  system  seized  by  the  eye  of  reason ;  for 
the  senses  show  man  the  aspect  worn  by  the 
world  as  it  is  at  the  moment,  but  reason  opens  to 
him  the  order  obtaining  in  the  world  as  it  must  be 
at  every  moment ;  and  the  instrument  by  which 
man  rises  from  the  phenomenal  plane  of  expe- 
rience to  the  necessary  sphere  of  truth  is  the 
generalizing  faculty  whose  operation  has  just 
been  described.  The  office  of  the  reason  in 
the  exercise  of  this  faculty  is  to  find  organic 
form  in  that  experience  which  memory  pre- 
serves in  the  mass,  —  to  penetrate,  that  is,  to 
that  mould  of  necessity  in  the  world  which 
phenomena,  when  they  arise,  must  put  on.  The 
species  once  perceived,  the  mind  no  longer  cares 
for  the  individual ;  the  law  once  known,  the 
mind  no  longer  cares  for  the  facts  ;  for  in  these 
universals  all  particular  instances,  past,  present, 
and  to  come,  are  contained  in  their  significance. 
All  sciences  are  advanced  in  proportion  as  they 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  86 

have  thus  organized  their  appropriate  matter 
in  abstract  conceptions  and  laws,  and  are  back- 
ward in  proportion  as  there  remains  much  in 
their  provinces  not  yet  so  coordinated  and  sys- 
tematized ;  and  in  their  hierarchy,  from  astro- 
nomical physics  downward,  each  takes  rank 
according  to  the  nature  of  the  universals  it 
deals  with,  as  these  are  more  or  less  embracing. 
The  matter  of  literature  —  that  part  of  total 
experience  which  it  deals  with  —  is  life ;  and, 
to  confine  attention  to  imaginative  literature 
where  alone  the  question  of  idealism  arises,  the 
matter  with  which  imaginative  literature  deals 
is  the  inward  and  spiritual  order  in  man's 
breast  as  distinguished  from  the  outward  and 
physical  order  with  which  science  deals.  The 
reason  as  here  exercised  organizes  man's  ex- 
perience in  this  great  tract  of  emotion,  will, 
and  meditation,  and  so  possesses  man  of  true 
knowledge  of  himself,  just  as  in  the  realm 
of  science  it  possesses  him  of  true  knowledge 
of  the  physical  world,  or,  in  psychology  and 
metaphysics,  of  the  constitution  and  processes 
of  the  mind  itself.  Such  knowledge  is,  with- 
out need  of  argument,  of  the  highest  conse- 
quence to  mankind.  It  exceeds,  indeed,  in 


86  HEART  OF  MAN 

dignity  and  value  all  other  knowledge  ;  for  to 
penetrate  this  inward  or  spiritual  order,  to 
grasp  it  with  the  mind  and  conform  to  it  with 
the  will,  is  not,  as  is  the  case  with  every  other 
sort  of  knowledge,  the  special  and  partial  effort 
of  selected  minds,  but  the  daily  business  of  all 
men  in  their  lives.  The  method  of  the  mind 
here  is  and  must  be  the  same  with  that  by 
which  it  accomplishes  its  work  elsewhere,  its 
only  method.  Here,  too,  its  concern  is  with 
the  universal;  its  end  is  to  know  life  —  the 
life  with  which  literature  deals  —  not  empiri- 
cally in  its  facts,  but  scientifically  in  its  neces- 
sary order,  not  phenomenally  in  the  senses  but 
rationally  in  the  mind,  not  without  relation  in 
its  mere  procession  but  organically  in  its  laws ; 
and  its  instrument  here,  as  through  the  whole 
gamut  of  the  physical  sciences  and  of  philoso- 
phy itself,  is  the  generalizing  faculty. 

One  difference  there  is  between  scientific  and 
imaginative  truth,  —  a  difference  in  the  mode 
of  statement.  Science  and  also  philosophy  for- 
mulate truth  and  end  in  the  formula ;  litera- 
ture, as  the  saying  is,  clothes  truth  in  a  tale. 
Imagination  is  brought  in,  and  by  its  aid  the 
mind  projects  a  world  of  its  own,  whose  prin- 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  87 

ciple  of  being  is  that  it  reembodies  general  or 
abstract  truth  and  presents  it  concretely  to 
the  eye  of  the  mind,  and  in  some  arts  gives 
it  physical  form.  So,  to  draw  an  example 
from  science  itself,  when  Leverrier  projected 
in  imagination  the  planet  Uranus,  he  incar- 
nated in  matter  a  whole  group  of  universal 
qualities  and  relations,  all  that  go  to  make  up  a 
world,  and  in  so  doing  he  created  as  the  poet 
creates;  there  was  as  much  of  truth,  too,  in 
his  imagined  world  before  he  found  the  actual 
planet  as  there  was  of  reality  in  the  planet 
itself  after  it  swam  into  his  ken.  This  crea- 
tion of  the  concrete  world  of  art  is  the  joint  act 
of  the  imagination  and  the  reason  working  in 
unison ;  and  hence  the  faculty  to  which  this  act 
is  ascribed  is  sometimes  called  the  creative  rea- 
son, or  shaping  power  of  the  mind,  in  distinc- 
tion from  the  scientific  intellect  which  merely 
knows.  The  term  is  intended  to  convey  at  once 
the  double  phase,  under  one  aspect  of  which 
the  reason  controls  imagination,  and  under  the 
other  aspect  the  imagination  formulates  the 
reason ;  it  is  meant  to  free  the  idea,  on  the  one 
hand,  from  that  suggestion  of  abstraction  im- 
plied by  the  reason,  and  to  disembarrass  it,  on 


88  HEART  OF  MAN 

the  other,  of  any  connection  with  the  irrational 
fancy ;  for  the  world  of  art  so  conceived  is 
necessarily  both  concrete,  correspondent  to  the 
realities  of  experience,  and  truthful,  subjeot  to 
the  laws  of  the  universe  ;  it  cannot  contain  the 
impossible,  it  cannot  amalgamate  the  actual 
with  the  unreal,  it  cannot  in  any  way  lie  and 
retain  its  own  nature.  The  use  of  this  ra- 
tional imagination  is  not  confined  to  the  world 
of  art.  It  is  only  by  its  aid  that  we  build 
up  the  horizons  of  our  earthly  life  and  fill 
them  with  objects  and  events  beyond  the  reach 
of  our  senses.  To  it  we  are  indebted  for  our 
knowledge  of  the  greater  part  of  others'  lives, 
for  our  idea  of  the  earth's  surface  and  the 
doings  of  foreign  nations,  of  all  past  history 
and  its  scene,  and  the  events  of  primaeval 
nature  which  were  even  before  man  was.  So 
far  as  we  realize  the  world  at  all  beyond  the 
limit  of  our  private  experience  of  it,  we  do  so 
by  the  power  of  the  imagination  acting  on  the 
lines  of  reason.  It  fills  space  and  time  for  us 
through  all  their  compass.  Nor  is  it  less  opera- 
tive in  the  practical  pursuits  of  men.  The 
scientist  lights  his  way  with  it ;  the  statesman 
forecasts  reform  by  it,  building  in  thought 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  89 

the  state  which  he  afterward  realizes  in  fact ; 
the  entire  future  lives  to  us  —  and  it  is  the 
most  important  part  of  life  —  only  by  its  in- 
cantation. The  poet  acts  no  otherwise  in  em- 
ploying it  than  the  inventor  and  the  speculator 
even,  save  that  he  uses  it  for  the  ends  of  reason 
instead  of  for  his  private  interest.  In  some 
parts  of  this  field  there  is,  or  was  once,  or  will 
be,  a  physical  parallel,  an  actuality,  containing 
the  verification  of  the  imagined  state  of  things ; 
but  so,  for  the  poet,  there  is  a  parallel,  a  con- 
ception of  the  reason  just  as  normal,  which  is 
not  the  less  real  because  it  is  a  tissue  of 
abstract  thought.  In  art  this  governance  of 
the  imagination  by  the  reason  is  fundamental, 
and  gives  to  the  office  of  the  latter  a  seeming 
primacy ;  and  therefore  emphasis  is  rightly 
placed  on  the  universal  element,  the  truth,  as 
the  substance  of  the  artistic  form.  But  in  the 
light  of  this  preliminary  description  of  the  men- 
tal processes  involved,  let  us  take  a  nearer  view 
of  their  particular  employment  in  literature. 

Human  life,  as  represented  in  literature,  con- 
sists of  two  main  branches,  character  and  ac- 
tion^ Of  these,  character,  which  is  the  realm 
of  personality,  is  generalized  by  means  of  type, 


90  HEART  OF  MAN 

which  is  ideal  character ;  action,  which  is  the 
realm  of  experience,  by  plot,  which  is  ideal 
action.  It  is  convenient  to  examine  the  nature 
of  these  separately.  A  type,  the  example  of  a 
class,  contains  the  characteristic  qualities  which 
make  an  individual  one  of  that  class ;  it  does 
not  differ  in  this  elementary  form  from  the 
bare  idea  of  the  species.  The  traits  of  a  tree, 
for  instance,  exist  in  every  actual  tree,  however 
stunted  or  imperfect;  and  in  the  type  which 
condenses  into  itself  what  is  common  in  all 
specimens  of  the  class,  these  traits  only  exist ; 
they  constitute  the  type.  Comic  types,  in  lit- 
erature, are  often  simple  abstractions  of  some 
single  human  quality,  and  hence  easily  afford 
illustrations.  The  braggart,  the  miser,  the 
hypocrite,  contain  that  one  trait  which  is  com- 
mon to  the  class ;  and  in  their  portrayal  this 
characteristic  only  is  shown.  In  proportion  as 
the  traits  are  many  in  any  character,  the  type 
becomes  complex.  In  simple  types  attention 
is  directed  to  some  one  vice,  passion,  or  virtue, 
capable  of  absorbing  a  human  life  into  itself. 
This  is  the  method  of  Jonson,  and,  in  tragedy, 
of  Marlowe.  As  human  energy  displays  itself 
more  variously  in  a  life,  in  complex  types,  the 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  91 

mind  contemplates  human  nature  in  a  more 
catholic  way,  with  a  less  exclusive  identifica- 
tion of  character  with  specific  trait,  a  more  free 
conception  of  personality  as  only  partially  ex- 
hibited ;  thus,  in  becoming  complex,  types 
gather  breadth  and  depth,  and  share  more  in 
the  mystery  of  humanity  as  something  incom- 
pletely known  to  us  at  the  best.  Such  are  the 
characters  of  Shakspere. 

The  manner  in  which  types  are  arrived  at 
and  made  recognizable  in  other  arts  opens  the 
subject  more  fully  and  throws  light  upon  their 
nature.  The  sculptor  observes  in  a  group  of 
athletes  that  certain  physical  habits  result  in 
certain  moulds  of  the  body ;  and  taking  such 
characteristics  as  are  common  to  all  of  one 
class,  and  neglecting  such  as  are  peculiar  to 
individuals,  he  carves  a  statue.  So  perma- 
nent are  the  physical  facts  he  relies  upon 
that,  centuries  after,  when  the  statue  is  dug 
up,  men  say  without  hesitation  —  here  is  the 
Greek  runner,  there  the  wrestler.  The  habit 
of  each  in  life  produces  a  bodily  form  which 
if  it  exists  implies  that  habit ;  the  reality  here 
results  from  the  operation  of  physical  laws 
and  can  be  physically  rendered ;  the  type  is 


92  HEAET  OF  MAN 

constituted  of  permanent  physical  fact.  There 
are  habits  of  the  soul  which  similarly  impress 
an  outward  stamp  upon  the  face  and  form 
so  certainly  that  expression,  attitude,  and 
shape  authentically  declare  the  presence  of 
the  soul  that  so  reveals  itself.  In  the  Phidian 
Zeus  was  all  awe  ;  in  the  Praxitelean  Hermes 
all  grace,  sweetness,  tenderness ;  in  the  Pallas 
Athene  of  her  people  who  carved  or  minted 
her  image  in  statue,  bas-relief,  or  coin,  was  all 
serene  and  grave  wisdom  ;  or,  in  the  glowing 
and  chastened  colours  of  the  later  artistic  time, 
the  Virgin  mother  shines  out,  in  Fra  Angelico 
all  adoration,  in  Bellini  all  beatitude,  in  Ra- 
phael all  motherhood.  The  sculptor  and  the 
painter  are  restricted  to  the  bodily  signs  of 
the  soul's  presence ;  but  the  poet  passes  into 
another  and  wider  range  of  interpretation. 
He  finds  the  soul  stamped  in  its  characteristic 
moods,  words,  actions.  He  then  creates  for 
the  mind's  eye  Achilles,  ^Eneas,  Arthur  ;  and 
in  his  verse  are  beheld  their  spirits  rather 
than  their  bodies. 

These  several  sorts  of  types  make  an  ascend- 
ing series  from  the  predominantly  physical  to 
the  predominantly  spiritual ;  but,  from  the 


A  NEW   DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  93 

present  point  of  view,  the  arts  which  embody 
their  creations  in  a  material  form  should  not  be 
opposed  to  literature  which  employs  the  least 
intervention  of  sensation,  as  if  the  former  had  a 
physical  and  the  last  a  spiritual  content.  All 
types  have  one  common  element,  they  express 
personality;  they  have  for  the  mind  a  spiritual 
meaning,  what  they  contain  of  human  character; 
they  differ  here  only  in  fulness  of  represen- 
tation. The  most  purely  physical  types  imply 
spiritual  qualities,  choice,  will,  command,  —  all 
the  life  which  was  a  condition  precedent  to  the 
bodily  perfection  that  was  its  flower;  and, 
though  the  eye  rests  on  the  beautiful  form,  it 
may  discern  through  it  the  human  soul  of  the 
athlete  as  in  life ;  and,  moreover,  the  figure  may 
be  represented  in  some  significant  act,  or  mood 
even,  but  this  last  is  rare.  The  more  plainly 
spiritual  tj^pes,  physically  rendered,  are  most 
often  shown  in  some  such  mood  or  act  expres- 
sive in  itself  of  the  soul  whose  habit  lives  in  the 
form  it  has  moulded.  It  is  not  that  the  plastic 
and  pictorial  arts  cannot  spiritualize  the  stone 
and  the  canvas  as  well  as  humanize  it  bodily; 
equally  with  the  poetic  art  they  reveal  character, 
but  within  narrower  bounds.  The  limitation 


94  HEART  OF   MAN 

of  these  arts  in  embodying  personality  is  one  of 
scope,  not  of  intention ;  and  though  it  springs 
out  of  their  use  of  material  forms,  it  does  so  in 
a  peculiar  way.  It  is  not  the  employment  of  a 
physical  medium  of  communication  that  differ- 
entiates them,  for  a  physical  medium  of  some 
sort  is  the  only  means  of  exchange  between  mind 
and  mind;  neither  is  it  the  employment  of  a 
physical  basis,  for  all  art,  being  concrete,  rests 
on  a  physical  basis  —  the  world  of  imagination 
is  exhaled  from  things  that  are.  The  physical 
basis  of  a  drama,  for  instance,  is  manifest  when 
it  is  enacted  on  the  stage ;  but  it  is  substantially 
the  same  whether  beheld  in  thought  or  ocularly. 
The  fact  is  that  the  limitation  of  sculpture 
and  painting  and  their  kindred  arts  results  from 
their  use  of  the  physical  basis  of  life  only  par- 
tially, and  not  as  a  whole  as  literature  uses  it. 
They  set  forth  their  works  in  the  single  ele- 
ment of  space  ;  they  exclude  the  changes  that 
take  place  in  time.  The  types  they  show  are 
arrested,  each  in  its  moment;  or  if  a  story 
is  told  by  a  series  of  representations,  it  is  a 
succession  of  such  moments  of  arrested  life. 
The  method  is  that  of  the  camera;  what  is 
given  is  a  fixed  state.  But  literature  renders 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  95 

life  in  movement;  it  revolves  life  through  its 
moments  as  rapidly  as  on  the  retina  of  sense ; 
its  method  is  that  of  the  kinetoscope.  It 
holds  under  its  command  change,  growth,  the 
entire  energy  of  life  in  action;  it  can  chase 
mood  with  mood,  link  act  to  act.  It  alone  can 
speak  the  word,  which  is  the  most  powerful 
instrument  of  man.  Hence  the  types  it  shows 
by  presenting  moods,  words,  and  acts  with  the 
least  obstruction  of  matter  and  the  slightest 
obligation  to  the  active  senses,  are  the  most 
complete.  They  have  broken  the  bonds  of  the 
flesh,  of  moment  and  place.  They  exhibit 
themselves  in  actions;  they  speak,  and  in 
dialogue  and  soliloquy  set  forth  their  states  of 
mind  lying  before,  or  accompanying,  or  follow- 
ing their  actions,  thus  interpreting  these  more 
fully.  Action  by  itself  reveals  character ;  speech 
illumines  it,  and  casts  upon  the  action  also  a 
forward  and  a  backward  light.  The  lapse  of 
time,  binding  all  together,  adds  the  continuous 
life  of  the  soul.  This  large  compass,  which  is 
the  greatest  reached  by  any  art,  rests  on  the 
wider  command  and  more  flexible  control  which 
literature  exercises  over  that  physical  basis 
which  is  the  common  foundation  of  all  the  arts. 


96  HEART   OF  MAN 

Hence  it  abounds  in  complex  types,  just  as 
other  arts  present  simple  types  with  more  fre- 
quency. All  types,  however,  in  so  far  as  they 
appeal  to  the  mind  and  interpret  the  inward  . 
world,  under  which  aspect  alone  they  are  now 
considered,  have  their  physical  nature,  materially 
or  imaginatively,  even  though  it  be  solely  visible 
beauty,  in  order  to  express  personality. 

The  type,  in  the  usage  of  literature,  must  be 
further  distinguished  from  the  bare  idea  of  the 
species  as  it  has  thus  far  been  defined.  It  is 
more  than  this.  It  is  not  only  an  example ;  it 
is  an  example  in  a  high  state  of  development,  if 
not  perfect.  The  best  possible  tree,  for  instance, 
does  not  exist  in  nature,  o.ving  to  a  confused 
environment  which  does  not  permit  its  forma- 
tion. In  literature  a  type  is  made  a  high  type 
either  by  intensity,  if  it  be  simple,  or  by  rich- 
ness of  nature,  if  it  be  complex.  Miserliness, 
braggadocio,  hypocrisy,  in  their  extremes,  are 
the  characters  of  comedy ;  a  rich  nature,  such 
as  Hamlet,  showing  variety  of  faculty  and 
depth  of  experience,  is  the  hero  of  more  pro- 
found drama.  This  truth,  the  necessity  of  high 
development  in  the  type,  underlay  the  old 
canon  that  the  characters  of  tragedy  should  be 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  97 

of  lofty  rank,  great  place,  and  consequence  in 
the  world's  affairs,  preferably  even  of  historic 
fame.  The  canon  erred  in  mistaking  one  means 
of  securing  credible  intensity  or  richness  for 
the  many  which  are  possible.  The  end  in  view 
is  to  represent  human  qualities  at  their  acme. 
In  other  times  as  a  matter  of  fact  persons 
highly  placed  were  most  likely  to  exhibit  such 
development ;  birth,  station,  and  their  oppor- 
tunities for  unrestrained  and  conspicuous  action 
made  them  examples  of  the  compass  of  human 
energy,  passion,  and  fate.  New  ages  brought 
other  conditions.  Shakspere  recognized  the 
truth  of  the  matter,  and  laid  the  emphasis 
where  it  belongs,  upon  the  humanity  of  the 
king,  not  on  the  kingly  office  of  the  man.  Said 
Henry  V. :  "I  think  the  king  is  but  a  man  as  I 
am ;  the  violet  smells  to  him  as  it  doth  to  me ; 
the  element  shows  to  him  as  it  doth  to  me ;  all 
his  senses  have  but  human  conditions ;  his  cere- 
monies laid  by,  in  his  nakedness  he  appears  but 
a  man;  and  though  his  appetites  are  higher 
mounted  than  ours,  yet,  when  they  stoop,  they 
stoop  with  like  wing."  Such,  too,  was  Lear  in 
the  tempest.  And  from  the  other  end  of  the 
scale  hear  Shylock :  "  Hath  not  a  Jew  eyes  ? 


98  HEART  OF   MAN 

hath  not  a  Jew  hands,  organs,  dimensions, 
senses,  appetites,  passions?  fed  with  the  same 
food,  hurt  with  the  same  weapons,  subject  to 
the  same  diseases,  healed  by  the  same  means, 
warmed  and  cooled  by  the  same  winter  and 
summer  as  a  Christian  is  ?  If  you  prick  us,  do 
we  not  bleed?  if  you  tickle  us,  do  we  not  laugh? 
if  you  poison  us,  do  we  not  die?  and  if  you 
wrong  us,  shall  we  not  revenge  ?  "  Rank  and 
race  are  accidents ;  the  essential  thing  is  that 
the  type  be  highly  human,  let  the  means  of 
giving  it  this  intensity  and  richness  be  what 
they  may. 

It  is  true  that  the  type  may  seem  defective  in 
the  point  that  it  is  at  best  but  a  fragment  of 
humanity,  an  abstraction  or  a  combination  of 
abstracted  qualities.  There  was  never  such  an 
athlete  as  our  Greek  sculptor's,  never  a  pagan 
god  nor  Virgin  Mother,  nor  a  hero  equal  to 
Homer's  thought,  so  beautiful,  brave,  and  cour- 
teous, so  terrible  to  his  foe,  so  loving  to  his 
friend.  And  yet  is  it  not  thus  that  life  is 
known  to  us  actually?  does  not  this  typical 
rendering  of  character  fall  in  with  the  natural 
habit  of  life?  What  man,  what  friend,  is 
known  to  us  except  by  fragments  of  his  spirit  ? 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  99 

Only  one  life,  our  own,  is  known  to  us  as  a  con- 
tinuous existence.  Just  as  when  we  see  an 
orange,  we  supply  the  further  side  and  think  of 
it  as  round,  so  with  men  we  supply  from  our- 
selves the  unseen  side  that  makes  the  man  com- 
pletely and  continuously  human.  Moreover,  it 
is  a  matter  of  common  experience  that  men,  we 
ourselves,  may  live  only  in  one  part,  and  the 
best,  of  our  nature  at  one  moment,  and  yet  for 
the  moment  be  absorbed  in  that  activity  both  in 
consciousness  and  energy ;  for  that  moment  we 
are  only  living  so;  now,  if  a  character  were 
shown  to  us  only  in  the  moments  in  which  he 
was  living  so,  at  his  best  and  in  his  charac- 
teristic state  as  the  soldier,  the  priest,  the  lover, 
then  the  ideal  abstraction  of  literature  would  not 
differ  from  the  actuality  of  our  experience.  In 
this  selfsame  way  we  habitually  build  for  our- 
selves ideal  characters  out  of  dead  and  living 
men,  by  dwelling  on  that  part  of  their  career 
which  we  most  admire  or  love  as  showing  their 
characteristic  selves.  Napoleon  is  the  con- 
queror, St.  Francis  the  priest,  Washington  the 
great  citizen,  only  by  this  method.  They  are 
not  thereby  de-humanized ;  neither  do  the  ideal 
types  of  imagination  fail  of  humanization  be- 


100  HEART   OF   MAN 

cause  they  are  thus  fragmentarily,  but  consist- 
ently, presented. 

The  type  must  make  this  human  appeal 
under  all  circumstances.  Its  whole  meaning 
and  virtue  lie  in  what  it  contains  of  our  com- 
mon humanity,  in  the  clearness  and  brilliancy 
with  which  it  interprets  the  man  in  us,  in  the 
force  with  which  it  identifies  us  with  human 
nature.  If  it  is  separated  from  us  by  a  too  high 
royalty  or  a  too  base  villany,  it  loses  intelli- 
gibility, it  forfeits  sympathy,  it  becomes  more 
and  more  an  object  of  simple  curiosity,  and  re- 
moves into  the  region  of  the  unknown.  Even 
if  the  type  passes  into  the  supernatural,  into 
fairyland  or  the  angelic  or  demoniac  world, 
it  must  not  leave  humanity  behind.  These 
spheres  are  in  fact  fragments  of  humanity 
itself,  projections  of  its  sense  of  wonder,  its 
goodness,  and  its  evil,  in  extreme  abstraction 
though  concretely  felt.  Fairy,  angel,  and  devil 
cease  to  be  conceivable  except  as  they  are 
human  in  trait,  however  the  conditions  of  their 
nature  may  be  fancied;  for  we  have  no  other 
materials  to  build  with  save  those  of  our  life 
on  earth,  though  we  may  combine  them  in 
ways  not  justified  by  reason.  In  so  far  as  these 


A  NEW  DEFENCE   OF  POETRY  101 

worlds  are  in  the  limits  of  rational  imagination, 
they  are  derived  from  humanity,  partial  inter- 
pretations of  some  of  its  moods,  portions  of 
itself ;  and  the  beings  who  inhabit  them  are  im- 
paired for  the  purposes  of  art  in  the  degree  to 
which  their  abstract  nature  is  felt  as  stripping 
them  of  complete  humanity.  For  this  reason 
in  dealing  with  such  simple  types,  being 
natures  all  of  one  strain,  it  has  been  found  best 
in  practice  to  import  into  them  individually 
some  quality  widely  common  to  men  in  addi- 
tion to  that  limited  quality  they  possess  by 
their  conception.  Some  touch  of  weakness  in 
an  angel,  some  touch  of  pity  in  a  devil,  some 
unmerited  misfortune  in  an  Ariel,  bring  them 
home  to  our  bosoms ;  just  as  the  frailty  of  the 
hero,  however  great  he  be,  humanizes  him  at  a 
stroke.  Thus  these  abstract  fragments  also  are 
reunited  with  humanity,  with  the  whole  of  life 
in  ourselves. 

Types,  then,  whether  simple  or  complex, 
whether  apparently  physical  or  purely  spiritual, 
whether  given  fragmentarily  or  as  wholes  of 
personality,  express  human  character  in  its  es- 
sential traits.  They  may  be  narrow  or  broad 
generalizations;  but  if  to  know  ourselves  be 


102  HEART  OF  MAN 

our  aim,  those  types,  which  show  man  his  com- 
mon and  enduring  nature,  are  the  most  valuable, 
and  rank  first  in  importance ;  in  proportion  as 
they  are  specialized,  they  are  less  widely  inter- 
pretative ;  in  proportion  as  they  escape  from 
time  and  place,  race,  culture,  and  religion,  and 
present  man  eternal  and  universal  in  his  pri- 
mary actions,  moods,  and  passions,  they  appeal  to 
a  greater  number  and  with  more  permanence ; 
they  become  immortal  in  becoming  universal. 
To  preserve  this  universality  is  the  essence  of 
the  type,  and  the  degree  of  universality  it 
reaches  is  its  measure  of  value  to  men.  It  is 
immaterial  whether  it  be  simple  as  Ajax  or 
complex  as  Hamlet,  whether  it  be  the  work  of 
imagination  solely  as  in  Hercules,  or  have  a  his- 
torical basis  as  in  Agamemnon ;  its  exemplary 
rendering  of  man  in  general  is  its  substance  and 
constitutes  its  ideality. 

Action,  the  second  great  branch  of  life,  is 
generalized  by  plot.  It  lies,  as  has  been  said, 
in  the  region  of  experience.  Character,  though 
it  may  be  conceived  as  latent,  can  be  presented 
only  energetically  as  it  finds  outward  expres- 
sion. It  cannot  be  shown  in  a  vacuum.  It 
embodies  or  reveals  itself  iu  an  act;  form  and 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      103 

feature,  as  expressive  of  character,  are  the  record 
of  past  acts.  This  act  is  the  link  that  binds 
type  to  plot.  By  means  of  it  character  enters 
the  external  world,  determining  the  course  of 
events  and  being  passively  affected  by  them. 
Plot  takes  account  of  this  interplay  and  sets 
forth  its  laws.  It  is,  therefore,  more  deeply 
engaged  with  the  environment,  as  type  is  more 
concerned  with  the  man  in  himself.  It  is,  ini- 
tially, a  thing  of  the  outward  as  type  is  a  thing 
of  the  inward  world.  How,  then,  does  litera- 
ture, through  plot,  reduce  the  environment  in 
its  human  relations  to  organic  form? 

The  course  of  events,  taken  as  a  whole,  is  in 
part  a  process  of  nature  independent  of  man,  in 
part  the  product  of  his  will.  It  is  a  continuous 
stream  of  phenomena  in  great  multiplicity,  and 
proceeding  in  a  temporal  sequence.  Science 
deals  with  that  portion  of  the  whole  which  is 
independent  of  man,  and  may  be  called  natural 
events,  and  by  discerning  causal  relations  in 
them  arrives  at  the  conception  of  law  as  a 
principle  of  unchanging  and  necessary  order 
in  nature.  Science  seeks  to  reduce  the  multi- 
plicity and  heterogeneity  of  facts  as  they  occur 
to  these  simple  formulas  of  law.  Science  does 


104  HEART  OF  MAN 

not  begin  in  reality  until  facts  end ;  facts,  ten 
or  ten  thousand,  are  indifferent  to  her  after  the 
law  which  contains  them  is  found,  and  are  a 
burden  to  her  until  it  is  found.  Literature,  in 
its  turn,  deals  with  human  events ;  and,  in  the 
same  way  as  science,  by  attending  to  causal  re- 
lations, arrives  at  the  conception  of  spiritual 
law  as  a  similarly  permanent  principle  in  the 
order  of  the  soul.  This  causal  unity  is  the  car- 
dinal idea  of  plot  which  by  definition  is  a  series 
of  events  causally  related  and  conceived  as  a 
unit,  technically  called  the  action.  Plot  is 
thus  analogous  to  an  illustrative  experiment  in 
science ;  it  is  a  concrete  example  of  law,  —  it  is 

**^*******''fcJ'*""**'*"*'*iTmiiii ^niu, immm»ai***~~~ 

law  operating. 

The  course  of  events  again,  so  far  as  they 
stand  in  direct  connection  with  human  life, 
may  be  thought  of  as  the  expression  of  the  in- 
dividual's own  will,  or  of  that  of  his  environ- 
ment. The  will  of  the  environment  may  be 
divided  into  three  varieties,  the  will  of  nature, 
the  will  of  other  men,  and  the  will  of  God.  In 
each  case  it  is  will  embodied  in  events.  If  these 
ideas  be  all  merged  in  the  conception  of  the 
world  as  a  totality  whose  course  is  the  unfold- 
ing of  one  Divine  will  operant  throughout  it 


A  NEW  DEFENCE   OF  POETRY  105 

and  called  Fate  or  Providence,  then  the  indi- 
vidual will,  through  which,  as  through  nature 
also,  the  Divine  will  works,  is  only  its  servant. 
Action  so  conceived,  the  march  of  events  under 
some  heavenly  power  working  through  the 
mass  of  human  will  which  it  overrules  in  con- 
junction with  its  own  more  comprehensive 
purposes,  is  epic  action;  in  it  characters  are 
subordinate  to  the  main  progress  of  the  action, 
they  are  only  terms  in  the  action  ;  however  free 
they  may  be  apparently,  considered  by  them- 
selves, that  freedom  is  within  such  limits  as  to 
allow  entire  certainty  of  result,  its  mutations 
are  included  in  the  calculation  of  the  Divine 
will.  The  action  of  the  ^Eneid  is  of  this  na- 
ture :  a  grand  series  of  destined  events  worked 
out  through  human  agency  to  fulfil  the  plan  of 
the  ruler  of  all  things  in  heaven  and  earth.  On 
the  other  hand,  if  the  course  of  events  be  more 
narrowly  attended  to  within  the  limits  of  the  in- 
dividual's own  activity,  as  the  expression  pri- 
marily and  significantly  of  his  personal  will,  then 
the  successive  acts  are  subordinate  to  the  char- 
acter ;  they  are  terms  of  the  character  which  is 
thereby  exhibited;  they  externalize  the  soul. 
Action,  so  conceived,  is  dramatic  action.  If  in 


106  HEART  OF  MAN 

the  course  of  events  there  arises  a  conflict  be- 
tween the  will  of  the  individual  and  that  of  his 
environment,  whether  nature,  man,  or  God,  then 
the  seed  of  tragedy,  specifically,  is  present ;  this 
conflict  is  the  essential  idea  of  tragedy.  In  all 
these  varieties  of  action,  the  scene  is  the  ex- 
ternal world ;  plot  lies  in  that  world,  and  sets 
forth  the  order,  the  causal  principle,  obtaining 
in  it. 

It  is  necessary,  however,  to  refine  upon  this 
statement  of  the  matter.  The  course  of  exter- 
nal events,  in  so  far  as  it  affects  one  person, 
whether  as  proceeding  from  or  reacting  upon 
him,  reveals  character,  and  has  meaning  as  an 
interpretation  of  inward  life.  It  is  a  series 
outward  indeed,  but  parallel  with  the  states  of 
will,  intellect,  and  emotion  which  make  up  the 
consciousness  of  the  character ;  and  it  is  inter- 
esting humanly  only  as  a  mirror  of  them.  It 
is  not  the  murderous  blow,  but  the  depraved 
will ;  not  the  pale  victim,  but  the  shocked  con- 
science ;  not  the  muttered  prayer,  the  frantic 
penance,  the  suicide,  but  remorse  working  itself 
out,  that  hold  our  attention.  Plot  here  mani- 
fests the  law  of  character  outwardly ;  but  the 
human  reality  lies  within,  and  to  be  seen  requires 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  107 

the  illumination  which  only  our  own  hearts  can 
give.  All  action  is  such  a  shadowing  forth  of 
the  soul.  The  constancy,  the  intimacy,  the  pro- 
fundity with  which  Shakspere  felt  this,  from 
the  earliest  syllables  of  his  art,  and  the  fre- 
quency with  which  he  dwells  upon  it,  mark  a 
characteristic  of  genius.  Says  Richard  II. :  — 

"  'Tis  very  true,  my  grief  lies  all  within ; 
And  these  external  manners  of  lament 
Are  merely  shadows  to  the  unseen  grief 
That  swells  in  silence  in  the  tortured  soul ; 
There  lies  the  substance." 

So  Theseus,  of  the  play  of  the  rude  artisans  of 
Athens,  excusing  all  art:  "The  best  in  this 
kind  are  but  shadows."  So  Hamlet;  so  Pros- 
pero. 

Action  is  vital  in  us,  and  has  a  double  order 
of  phenomena;  so  far  as  these  are  physical, 
their  law  is  one  of  the  physical  world,  and 
interests  us  no  more  than  other  physical  laws ; 
so  far  as  they  belong  in  the  inward  world  of 
self-consciousness,  their  law  is  spiritual,  and  has 
human  interest  as  being  operant  in  a  soul  like 
our  own.  The  external  fact  is  seized  by  the  eye 
as  a  part  of  nature ;  the  internal  fact  is  of  the 
unseen  world,  and  is  beheld  only  in  the  light 


108  HEART  OF  MAN 

which  is  within  our  own  bosoms  —  it  is  spiritu- 
ally discerned.  On  the  stage  plainly  this  is  the 
case.  So  far  as  the  actions  are  for  the  eye  of 
sense  alone  they  are  merely  spectacular ;  so  far 
as  they  express  desires  and  energies,  they  are 
dramatic,  and  these  we  do  not  see  but  feel 
according  as  our  experience  permits  us  so  to 
comprehend  them.  We  contemplate  a  world 
of  emotion  there  in  connection  with  the  active 
energy  of  the  will,  a  world  of  character  in 
operation  in  man ;  we  feed  it  from  our  life, 
interpret  it  therefrom,  build  it  up  in  ourselves, 
suffering  the  illusion  till  absorbed  in  what  is 
arising  in  our  consciousness  under  the  actor's 
genius  we  become  ourselves  the  character. 
The  greatest  actor  is  he  who  makes  the  specta- 
tor play  the  part.  So  far  is  the  drama  from 
the  scene  that  it  goes  on  in  our  own  bosoms ; 
there  is  the  stage  without  any  illusion  whatso- 
ever; the  play  is  vital  for  the  moment  in  our- 
selves. 

And  what  is  true  of  the  stage  is  true  of 
life.  It  is  only  through  our  own  hearts  that 
we  look  into  the  hearts  of  others.  We  inter- 
pret the  external  signs  of  sense  in  terms  of  per- 
sonality and  experience  known  only  within  us ; 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      108 

the  life  of  will,  head,  and  heart  that  we  ascribe 
to  our  nearest  and  dearest  friends  is  something 
imagined,  something  never  seen  any  more  than 
our  own  personality.  Thus  our  knowledge  of 
them  is  not  only  fragmentary,  as  has  been  said ; 
it  is  imaginative  even  within  its  limits.  It  is, 
in  reality  as  well  as  in  art,  a  shadow- world  we 
live  in,  believing  that  within  its  sensuous  films 
a  spirit  like  unto  ourselves  abides,  —  the  human 
soul,  though  never  seen  face  to  face.  To  enter 
this  substantial  world  behind  the  phenomena  of 
human  life  as  sensibly  shown  in  imagination, 
to  know  the  invisible  things  of  personality  and 
experience,  and  to  set  them  forth  as  a  spiritual 
order,  is  the  main  end  of  ideal  art.  Though  in 
plot  the  outward  order  is  brought  into  the  full- 
est prominence,  and  may  seem  to  occupy  .the 
field,  yet  it  is  significantly  only  the  shadow  of 
that  order  within. 

In  thus  presenting  plot  as  the  means  by 
which  the  history  of  a  single  soul  is  external- 
ized, one  important  element  has  been  excluded 
from  consideration.  The  causal  chain  of  events, 
which  constitutes  plot,  has  a  double  unity,  an- 
swering to  the  double  order  of  phenomena  in 
action  as  a  state  of  mind  and  a  state  of  external 


110  HEART  OF   MAN 

fact.  Under  one  aspect,  so  much  of  the  action 
as  is  included  in  any  single  life  and  is  there  a 
linked  sequence  of  mental  states,  has  its  unity 
in  the  personality  of  that  individual.  Under 
the  other  aspect,  the  entire  action  which  sets 
forth  the  relations  of  all  the  characters  in- 
volved, of  their  several  courses  of  experience 
as  elements  in  the  working  out  of  the  joint 
result,  has  its  unity  in  the  constitution  of  the 
universe,  —  the  impersonal  order,  that  structure 
of  being  itself,  which  is  independent  of  man's 
will,  which  is  imposed  upon  him  as  a  condition 
of  existence,  and  which  he  must  accept  without 
appeal.  This  necessity,  to  give  it  the  best  name, 
to  which  man  is  exposed  without  and  subjected 
within,  is  in  its  broadest  conception  the  power 
that  increases  life,  and  all  things  are  under  its 
sway.  Its  sphere  is  above  man's  will;  he 
knows  it  as  immutable  law  in  himself  as  it 
is  in  nature ;  it  is  the  highest  object  of  his 
thoughts.  Its  workings  are  submitted  to  his 
observation  and  experiment  as  a  part  of  the 
world  of  knowledge;  he  sees  its  operation  in 
individuals,  social  groups,  and  nations,  and  sets 
it  forth  in  the  action  of  the  lyric,  the  drama, 
and  the  epic  as  the  law  of  life.  In  its  sphere 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      111 

is  the  higher  unity  of  plot  by  virtue  of  which 
it  integrates  many  lives  in  one  main  action. 
Such,  then,  is  the  nature  of  plot  as  intermedi- 
ary between  man  and  his  environment,  but 
deeply  engaged  in  the  latter,  and  not  to  be 
freed  from  it  even  by  a  purely  spiritualistic 
philosophy;  for  though  we  say  that,  as  under 
one  aspect  plot  shadows  forth  the  unseen  world 
of  the  soul's  life,  so  under  the  other  it  shadows 
forth  the  invisible  will  of  God,  we  do  not  escape 
from  the  outward  world.  Sense  is  still  the 
medium  by  which  only  man  knows  his  brother 
man  and  God  also  as  through  a  glass  darkly,  — 

"  The  painted  veil  which  those  who  live  call  life." 

It  separates  all  spirits,  the  beautiful  but  dense 
element  in  which  the  pure  soul  is  submerged. 

It  is  necessary  only  to  summarize  the  char- 
acteristics of  plot  which  are  merely  parallel  to 
those  of  type  already  illustrated.  Plot  may 
be  simple  or  complex;  it  may  be  more  or  less 
involved  in  physical  conditions  in  proportion  as 
it  lays  stress  on  its  machinery  or  its  psychol- 
ogy ;  it  must  be  important,  as  the  type  must  be 
high,  but  important  by  virtue  of  its  essential 
human  meaning  and  not  of  its  accidents ;  it  is 


112  HEART  OF  MAN 

a  fragment  of  destiny  only,  but  in  this  falls  in 
with  the  way  life  in  others  is  known  to  us ;  if 
it  passes  into  the  superhuman  world,  it  must 
retain  human  significance  and  be  brought  back 
to  man's  life  by  devices  similar  to  those  used  in 
the  type  for  the  same  purpose ;  it  rises  in  value 
in  proportion  to  the  universality  it  contains, 
and  gains  depth  and  permanence  as  it  is  inter- 
pretative of  common  human  fate  at  all  times 
and  among  all  men ;  it  may  be  purely  imaginary 
or  founded  on  actual  incidents;  and  its  exem- 
plary interpretation  of  man's  life  is  its  sub- 
stance, and  constitutes  its  ideality. 

In  the  discussion  of  type  and  plot,  the  con- 
crete nature  of  the  world  of  art,  which  was 
originally  stated  to  be  the  characteristic  work 
of  the  creative  reason,  or  imagination  acting  in 
conformity  with  truth,  has  been  assumed ;  but 
no  reason  has  been  given  for  it,  because  it 
seemed  best  to  develop  first  with  some  fulness 
the  nature  of  that  inward  order  which  is  thus 
projected  in  the  forms  of  art.  It  belongs  to  the 
frailty  of  man  that  he  seizes  with  difficulty  and 
holds  with  feebleness  the  pure  ideas  of  the 
intellect,  the  more  in  proportion  as  they  are 
removed  from  sense ;  and  he  seeks  to  support 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      113 

himself  against  this  weakness  by  framing  sen- 
sible representations  of  the  abstract  in  which 
the  mind  can  rest.  Thus  in  all  lands  and 
among  savage  tribes,  as  well  as  in  the  most 
civilized  nations,  symbols  have  been  used  im- 
memorially.  The  flag  of  a  nation  has  all  its 
meaning  because  it  is  taken  as  a  physical  token 
of  national  honour,  almost  of  national  life  itself. 
The  Moslem  crescent,  the  Christian  cross,  have 
only  a  similar  significance,  a  bringing  near  to 
the  eye  of  what  exists  in  reality  only  for  the 
mind  and  heart.  A  symbol,  however,  is  an  ar- 
bitrary fiction,  and  stands  to  the  idea  as  a  meta- 
phor does  to  the  thing  itself.  In  literature  the 
parable  of  the  mustard  seed  to  which  the  king- 
dom of  heaven  was  likened,  exemplifies  sym- 
bolical or  metaphorical  method;  but  the  tale 
of  the  court  of  Arthur's  knights,  ideal  method ; 
between  them,  and  sharing  something  of  both, 
lies  allegorical  method.  Idolatry  is  the  religion 
of  symbolism,  for  the  image  is  not  the  god; 
Christianity  is  the  religion  of  idealism,  for 
Christ  is  God  incarnate.  Idealism  presents  the 
reality  itself,  the  universal  truth  made  manifest 
in  the  concrete  type,  and  there  present  and 
embodied  in  its  characteristics  as  they  are,  not 


114  HEART  OF  MAN 

merely  arbitrarily  by  a  fiction  of  thought,  sym- 
bolically or  allegorically. 

The  way  in  which  type  concretes  truth  is 
sufficiently  plain;  but  it  may  be  useful,  with 
respect  to  plot,  to  draw  out  more  in  detail  the 
analogy  which  has  been  said  to  exist  between 
it  and  an  illustrative  scientific  experiment.  If 
scientific  law  is  declared  experimentally,  the 
course  of  nature  is  modified  by  intent ;  certain 
conditions  are  secured,  certain  others  elimi- 
nated; a  selected  train  of  phenomena  is  then 
set  in  motion  to  the  end  that  the  law  may 
be  illustrated,  and  nothing  else.  In  a  perfect 
experiment  the  law  is  in  full  operation.  In 
plot  there  is  a  like  selection  of  persons,  situa- 
tions, and  incidents  so  arranged  as  to  disclose 
the  working  of  that  order  which  obtains  in 
man's  life.  The  law  may  be  simple  and  shown 
by  means  of  few  persons  and  incidents  in  a  brief 
way,  as  in  ancient  drama,  or  complex  and  exhib- 
ited with  many  characters  in  an  abundance  of 
action  over  a  wide  scene  as  in  Shakspere ;  in 
either  case  equally  there  is  a  selection  from  the 
whole  mass  of  man's  life  of  what  shall  illus- 
trate the  causal  union  in  its  order  and  show 
it  in  action.  The  process  in  the  epic  or  prose 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  115 

narrative  is  the  same.  The  common  method  of 
all  is  to  present  the  universal  law  in  a  particu- 
lar instance  made  for  the  purpose. 

In  thus  clothing  itself  in  concrete  form,  truth 
suffers  no  transformation;  it  remains  what  it 
was,  general  truth,  the  very  essence  of  type  and 
plot  being,  as  has  been  said,  to  preserve  this 
universality  in  the  particular  instance.  There 
is  a  sense  in  which  this  general  truth  is  more 
real,  as  Plato  thought,  than  particulars ;  a  sense 
in  which  the  phenomenal  world  is  less  real  than 
the  system  of  nature,  for  phenomena  come  and 
go,  but  the  law  remains ;  a  sense  in  which  the 
order  in  man's  breast  is  more  real  than  he  is,  in 
whom  it  is  manifest,  for  the  form  of  ideas,  the 
mould  of  law,  are  permanent,  but  their  expres- 
sion in  us  transitory.  It  is  this  higher  realism, 
as  it  was  anciently  called,  that  the  mind  strives 
for  in  idealism,  —  this  organic  form  of  life,  the 
object  of  all  rational  knowledge.  Types,  under 
their  concrete  disguise,  are  thus  only  a  part  of 
the  general  notions  of  the  mind  found  in  every 
branch  of  knowledge  and  necessary  to  thought ; 
plots,  similarly,  are  only  a  part  of  the  general 
laws  of  the  ordered  world ;  literature  in  using 
them,  and  specializing  them  in  concrete  form 


118  HEART   OF   MAN 

by  which  alone  they  differ  in  appearance  from 
like  notions  and  laws  elsewhere,  merely  avails 
itself  of  that  condensing  faculty  of  the  mind 
which  most  economizes  mental  effort  and  loads 
conceptions  with  knowledge.  In  the  type  it  is 
not  personal,  but  human  character  that  interests 
the  mind ;  in  plot,  it  is  not  personal,  but  human 
fate. 

While  it  is  true  that  the  object  of  ideal 
method  is  to  reach  universals,  and  reembody 
them  in  particular  instances,  this  reasoning  ac- 
tion is  often  obscurely  felt  by  the  imagination 
in  its  creative  process.  The  very  fact  that  its 
operation  is  through  the  concrete  complicates 
the  process.  The  mind  of  genius  working  out 
its  will  does  not  usually  start  with  a  logical 
attempt  consciously ;  it  does  not  arrive  at  truth 
in  the  abstract  and  then  reduce  it  to  concrete 
illustration  in  any  systematic  way ;  it  does  not 
select  the  law  and  then  shape  the  plot.  TJie 
poet  is  rather  directly  interested  in  certain  char- 
acters and  events  that  appeal  to  him ;  his  sym- 
pathies are  aroused,  and  he  procgjada-io  show 
forth,  to  interpret,  to  create ;  and  in  proportion 
as  the  characters  he  sets  in  motion  and  the 
circumstances  in  which  they  are  placed  have 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  117 

moulding  force,  they  will  develop  traits  and 
express  themselves  in  influences  that  he  did  not 
foresee.  This  is  a  matter  of  familiar  know- 
ledge to  authors,  who  frequently  discover  in  the 
trend  of  the  imaginary  tale  a  will  of  its  own, 
which  has  its  unforeseen  way.  The  drama  or 
story,  once  set  in  motion,  tends  to  tell  itself, 
just  as  life  tends  to  develop  in  the  world.  The 
vitality  of  the  clay  it  works  in,  is  one  of  the 
curious  experiences  of  genius,  and  occasions 
that  mood  of  mystery  in  relation  to  their  crea- 
tures frequently  observed  in  great  writers.  In 
fact,  this  mode  of  working  in  the  concrete, 
which  is  characteristic  of  the  creative  imagina- 
tion, gives  to  its  activity  an  inductive  and  ex- 
perimental character,  not  to  be  confounded  with 
the  demonstrative  act  of  the  intellect  which 
states  truth  after  knowing  it,  and  not  in  the 
moment  of  its  discovery.  In  literature  this 
moment  of  discovery  is  what  makes  that  flash 
which  is  sometimes  called  intuition,  and  is  one 
of  the  great  charms  of  genius. 

The  concrete  nature  of  ideal  art,  to  touch 
conveniently  here  upon  a  related  though  minor 
topic,  is  also  the  reason  that  it  expresses  more 
than  its  creator  is  aware  of.  In  imaging  life  he 


118  HEART  OF  MAN 

includes  more  reality  than  he  attends  to;  but 
if  his  representation  has  been  made  with  truth, 
others  may  perceive  phases  of  reality  that  he 
neglected.  It  is  the  mark  of  genius,  as  has 
hitherto  appeared,  to  grasp  life,  not  fragmen- 
tarily,  but  in  the  whole.  So,  in  a  scientific 
experiment,  intended  to  illustrate  one  particu- 
lar form  of  energy,  a  spectator  versed  in  another 
science  may  detect  some  truth  belonging  in  his 
own  field.  This  richer  significance  of  great 
works  is  especially  found  where  the  union  of 
the  general  and  the  particular  is  strong ;  where 
the  fusion  is  complete,  as  in  Hamlet.  In  a 
sense  he  is  more  real  than  living  men,  and  we 
can  analyze  his  nature,  have  doubts  about  his 
motives,  judge  differently  of  his  character,  and 
value  his  temperament  more  or  less  as  one 
might  with  a  friend.  The  more  imaginative  a 
character  is,  in  the  sense  that  his  personality 
and  experience  are  given  in  the  whole  so  that 
one  feels  the  bottom  of  reality  there,  the  more 
significance  it  has.  Thus  in  the  world  of  art 
discoveries  beyond  the  intention  of  the  writer 
may  be  made  as  in  the  actual  world;  so  much 
of  reality  does  it  contain. 

Will  it  be  said  that,  in  making  primary  the 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  119 

universal  contents  and  spiritual  significance  of 
type  and  plot,  I  have  made  literature  didactic, 
as  if  the  word  should  stop  my  mouth  ?  If  it  is 
meant  by  this  that  I  maintain  that  literature 
conveys  truth,  it  may  readily  be  admitted,  since 
only  thus  can  it  interest  the  mind  which  has  its 
whole  life  in  the  pursuit  and  its  whole  joy  in 
the  possession  of  truth.  But  if  it  be  meant  that 
abstract  or  moral  instruction  has  been  made  the 
business  of  literature,  the  charge  may  be  met 
with  a  disclaimer,  as  should  be  evident,  first, 
from  the  emphasis  placed  on  its  concrete  deal- 
ing with  persons  and  actions.  On  the  contrary, 
literature  fails  in  art  precisely  in  proportion 
as  it  becomes  expressly  such  a  teacher.  Sec- 
ondly, the  life  which  literature  organizes,  the 
whole  of  human  nature  in  its  relation  to  the 
world,  is  nrany-sided;  and  imaginative  genius, 
the  creative  reason,  grasps  it  in  its  totality. 
The  moral  aspect  is  but  one  among  many  that 
life  wears.  If  ethics  are  implicit  in  the  mass 
of  life,  so  also  are  beauty  and  passion,  pathos, 
humour,  and  terror;  and  in  literature  any  one 
of  these  may  be  the  prominent  phase  at  the 
moment,  forjiterature  gives mjt.  not,  only  piasi-., 
tical  moral  wisdonv knfc.-flIL-tlia-rp.fl.lity  pf  Tiff*. 


120  HEART   OF   MAN 

Literature  is  didactic  in  the  reproachful  sense 
of  the  word  only  in  proportion  as  type  and  plot 
are  distinctly  separated  from  the  truth  they  em- 
body, and  ceases  to  be  so  in  proportion  as  these 
are  blended  and  unified.  The  fable  is  one  of 
the  most  ancient  forms  of  such  didactic  litera- 
ture ;  in  it  a  story  is  told  to  enforce  a  lesson, 
and  animals  are  made  the  characters,  in  con- 
sequence of  which  it  has  the  touch  of  humour 
inseparable  from  the  spectacle  of  beasts  playing 
at  being  men ;  but  the  very  fact  that  the  moral 
is  of  men  and  the  tale  is  of  beasts  involves  a 
separation  of  the  truth  from  its  concrete  embodi- 
ment, and  besides  the  moral  is  stated  by  itself. 
In  the  Oriental  apologue  an  advance  is  made. 
The  parables  of  our  Lord,  in  particular,  are 
admirable  examples  of  its  method.  T,he  char-^ 
acters  are  few,  the  situations  common,  the  ac- 
tion simple,  and  the  moral  truth  or  lesson 
enforceH  is  so  completely  clothed  in  the  tale 
that  it  needs  no  explanation ;  at  the  same  time, 
the  mind  is  awarerof  the  teacher.  In  the  higher 
forms  of  literature,  however,  the  fusion  of  ethics 
with  life  may  be  complete.  Here  the  poet  works 
so  subtly  that  the  mind  is  not  aware  of  the 
illumination  of  this  light  which  comes  without 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  121 

the  violence  of  the  preacher,  until  after  the  fact ; 
and,  indeed,  the  effect  is  wrought  more  through 
the  sympathies  than  the  reason.  In  such  a  case 
literature,  though  it  conveys  moral  with  other 
kinds  of  truth,  is  not  open  to  the  charge  of 
didacticism,  which  is  valid  only  when  teaching 
is  explicit  and  abstract.  The  educative  power 
of  literature,  however,  is  not  diminished  because 
in  its  art  it  dispenses  with  the  didactic  method, 
which  by  its  very  definiteness  is  inelastic  and 
narrow;  in  fact,  the  more  imaginative  a  char- 
acter is,  the  more  fruitful  it  may  be  even  in 
moral  truth ;  it  may  teach,  as  has  been  said, 
what  the  poet  never  dreamed  his  work  con- 
tained. 

If,  then,  to  sum  up  the  argument  thus  far, 
the  subject-matter  of  literature  is  life  in  the 
forms  of  personality  and  experience,  and  the 
particular  facts  with  respect  to  these  are  gener- 
alized by  means  of  type  and  plot  in  concrete 
form,  and  so  are  set  forth  as  phases  of  an 
ordered  world  for  the  intelligence,  to  the  end 
that  man  may  know  himself  in  the  same  way 
as  he  knows  nature  in  its  living  system  —  if  this 
be  so,  what  standing  have  those  who  would  re- 
strict literature  to  the  actual  in  life  ?  who  would 


122  HEART  OF   MAN 

replace  ideal  types  of  manhood  by  the  men  of 
the  time,  and  the  ordered  drama  of  the  stage  by 
the  medley  of  life?  They  deny  art,  which  is  the 
instrument  of  the  creative  reason,  to  literature ; 
for  as  soon  as  art,  which  is  the  process  of  creat- 
ing a  rational  world,  begins,  the  necessity  for 
selection  arises,  and  with  it  the  whole  question 
of  values,  facts  being  no  longer  equal  among 
themselves  on  the  score  of  actuality,  nor  in 
fitness  for  the  work  in  hand.  The  trivial,  the 
accidental,  the  unmeaning,  are  rejected,  and 
there  will  be  no  stopping  short  of  the  end ;  for 
art,  being  the  handmaid  of  truth,  can  employ  no 
other  than  the  method  of  all  reason,  wherefore 
idealism  is  to  it  what  abstraction  is  to  logic  and 
induction  to  natural  science, — the  breath  of 
its  rational  being.  Those  who  hold  to  realism 
in  its  extreme  form,  as  a  representation  of  the 
actual  only,  behave  as  if  one  should  say  to 
the  philosopher  —  leave  this  formulation  of 
general  notions  and  be  content  with  sensible 
objects ;  or  to  the  scientist  —  experiment  no 
more,  but  observe  the  course  of  nature  as  it  may 
chance  to  arise,  and  describe  it  in  its  succession. 
They  bid  us  be  all  eye,  no  mind ;  all  sense,  no 
thought ;  all  chance,  all  confusion,  no  order, 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  123 

no  organization,  no  fabric  of  the  reason.  But 
there  are  no  such  realists ;  though  pure  realism 
has  its  place,  as  will  hereafter  be  shown,  it  is 
usually  found  mixed  with  ideal  method;  and 
as  commonly  employed  the  word  designates  the 
preference  merely  for  types  and  plots  of  much 
detail,  of  narrow  application,  of  little  meaning, 
in  opposition  to  the  highly  generalized  and  sig- 
nificant types  and  plots  usually  associated  with 
the  term  idealism.  In  what  way  such  realism 
has  its  place  will  also  appear  at  a  later  stage. 
Here  it  is  necessary  to  say  no  more  than  that 
in  proportion  as  realism  uses  the  ideal  method 
only  at  the  lowest,  it  narrows  its  appeal,  weak 
ens  its  power,  and  takes  from  literature  her 
highest  distinction  by  virtue  of  which  she 
grasps  the  whole  of  character  and  fate  in  her 
creation  and  informs  man  of  the  secrets  of  his 
human  heart,  the  course  of  his  mortal  destiny, 
and  the  end  of  all  his  spiritual  effort  and  aspi- 
ration. 

I  am  aware  that  I  have  not  proceeded  so 
far  without  starting  objections.  To  meet  that 
which  is  most  grave,  what  shall  I  say  when 
it  is  alleged  that  there  is  no  order  such  as  I 
have  assumed  in  life  ;  or,  if  there  be,  that  it  is 


124  HEART  OF   MAN 

insufficiently  known,  too  intangible  and  com- 
plex, too  various  in  different  races  and  ages,  to 
be  made  the  subject  of  such  an  exposition  as 
obtains  of  natural  order?  Were  this  assertion 
true,  yet  there  would  be  good  reason  to  retain 
our  illusion :  for  the  mind  delights  in  order,  and 
will  invent  it.  The  mind  is  perplexed  and  dis- 
turbed until  it  finds  this  order ;  and  in  the  pro- 
gressive integration  of  its  experience  into  an 
ordered  world  lies  its  work.  Art  gives  pleasure 
to  the  intellect,  because  in  its  structure  what- 
ever is  superfluous  and  extrinsic  has  been  elimi- 
nated, so  that  the  mind  contemplates  an  artistic 
work  as  a  unity  of  relations  bound  each  to  each 
which  it  fully  comprehends.  Such  works,  we  say, 
have  form,  which  is  just  this  interdependence 
of  parts  wholly  understood  which  appeals  to  the 
intellect,  and  satisfies  it :  they  would  please  the 
mind,  though  the  order  they  embody  were 
purely  imaginary,  just  as  science  would  de- 
light it,  were  the  order  of  nature  itself  illusory. 
Creative  art  would  thus  still  have  a  ground  of 
being  under  a  sceptical  philosophy ;  man  would 
delight  to  dream  his  dream.  But  it  is  not 
necessary  to  take  this  lower  line  of  argument. 
It  does  not  appear  to  me  to  be  open  to  ques- 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  125 

tion  that  there  is  in  the  soul  of  man  a  nature 
and  an  order  obtaining  in  it  as  permanent  and 
universal  as  in  the  material  world.  The  soul 
of  man  has  a  common  being  in  all.  There  could 
be  no  science  of  logic,  psychology,  or  metaphys- 
ics on  the  hypothesis  of  any  uncertainty  as  to 
the  identity  of  mind  in  all,  nor  any  science  of 
ethics  on  the  hypothesis  of  any  variation  as  to 
the  identity  of  the  will  in  all,  nor  any  ground 
of  expression  even,  of  communication  between 
man  and  man,  on  the  hypothesis  of  any  radical 
difference  in  the  experience  and  faculties  to 
which  all  expression  appeals  for  its  intelligi- 
bility ;  neither  could  there  be  any  system  of 
life  in  social  groups,  or  plan  for  education, 
unless  such  a  common  basis  is  accepted.  The 
postulate  of  a  common  human  nature  is  analo- 
gous to  that  of  the  unity  of  matter  in  science ; 
it  finds  its  complete  expression  in  the  doctrine 
of  the  brotherhood  of  man,  for  if  race  be  funda- 
mentally distinguished  from  race  as  was  once 
thought,  it  is  only  as  element  is  distinguished 
from  element  in  the  old  chemistry.  So,  too,  the 
postulate  of  an  order  obtaining  in  the  soul,  uni- 
versal and  necessary,  independent  of  man's  voli- 
tion, analogous  in  all  respects  to  the  order  of 


126  HEART  OF   MAN 

nature,  is  parallel  with  that  of  the  constancy  of 
physical  law.  A  rational  life  expects  this  order. 
The  first  knowledge  of  it  comes  to  us,  as  that 
of  natural  law,  by  experience ;  in  the  social 
world  —  the  relations  of  men  to  one  another  — 
and  in  the  more  important  region  of  our  own 
nature  we  learn  the  issue  of  certain  courses  of 
action  as  well  as  in  the  external  world ;  in  our 
own  lives  and  in  our  dealings  with  others  we 
come  to  a  knowledge  of,  and  a  conformity  to, 
the  conditions  under  which  we  live,  the  laws 
operant  in  our  being,  as  well  as  those  of  the  phys- 
ical world.  Literature  assumes  this  order;  in 
^Eschylus,  Cervantes,  or  Shakspere,  it  is  this 
that  gives  their  work  interest.  Apart  from  nat- 
ural science,  the  whole  authority  of  the  past 
in  its  entire  accumulation  of  wisdom  rests  upon 
the  permanence  of  this  order,  and  its  capacity 
to  be  known  by  man ;  that  virtue  makes  men 
noble  and  vice  renders  them  base,  is  a  statement 
without  meaning  unless  this  order  is  continuous 
through  ages ;  all  principles  of  action,  all 
schemes  of  culture,  would  be  uncertain  except 
on  this  foundation. 

So  near  is  this  order  to  us  that  it  was  known 
long    before    science    came    to    any   maturity. 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      127 

We  have  added,  in  truth,  little  to  our  know- 
ledge of  humanity  since  the  Greeks;  and  if 
one  wonders  why  ethics  came  before  science, 
let  him  own  at  least  that  its  priority  shows  that 
it  is  near  and  vital  in  life  as  science  is  not. 
We  can  do,  it  seems,  without  Kepler's  laws,  but 
not  without  the  Decalogue.  The  race  acquires 
first  what  is  most  needful  for  life ;  and  man's 
heart  was  always  with  him,  and  his  fate  near.  A 
second  reason,  it  may  be  noted,  for  the  later 
development  of  science  is  that  our  senses,  as 
used  by  science,  are  more  mental  now,  and  the 
object  itself  is  observable  only  by  the  interven- 
tion of  the  mind  through  the  telescope  or  micro- 
scope or  a  hundred  instruments  into  which, 
though  physical,  the  mind  enters.  Our  meth- 
ods, too,  as  well  as  our  instruments,  are  things 
of  the  mind.  It  behooves  us  to  remember  in  an 
age  which  science  is  commonly  thought  to  have 
materialized,  that  more  and  more  the  mind 
enters  into  all  results,  and  fills  an  ever  larger 
place  in  life;  and  this  should  serve  to  make 
materialism  seem  more  and  more  what  it  is  — 
a  savage  conception.  But  recognizing  the 
great  place  of  mind  in  modern  science,  and 
its  growing  illumination  of  our  earthly  sys- 


128  HEART   OF   MAN 

tern,  I  am  not  disposed  to  discredit  its  earli- 
est results  in  art  and  morals.  I  find  in  this 
penetration  of  the  order  of  the  world  within 
us  our  most  certain  truth ;  and  as  our  bodies 
exist  only  by  virtue  of  sharing  in  the  general 
order  of  nature,  so,  I  believe,  our  souls  have 
being  only  by  sharing  in  this  order  of  the 
inward,  the  spiritual  world. 

What,  then,  is  this  order?  We  do  not 
merely  contemplate  it :  we  are  immersed  in  it, 
it  is  vital  in  us,  it  is  that  wherein  we  live  and 
move  and  have  our  being,  ever  more  and  more 
in  proportion  as  the  soul's  life  outvalues  the 
body  in  our  experience.  It  is  necessary  to  ex- 
pand our  conception  of  it.  Hitherto  it  has  been 
presented  only  as  an  order  of  truth  appealing 
to  the  intellect:  but  the  intellect  is  only  one 
function  of  the  soul,  and  thinkers  are  the 
merest  fraction  of  mankind.  We  know  this 
order  not  only  as  truth,  but  as  righteousness ;  we 
know  that  certain  choices  end  in  enlarging  and 
invigorating  our  faculties,  and  other  choices 
in  their  enfeeblement  and  extinction ;  and  the 
race  adds,  acting  under  the  profound  motive  of 
self-preservation,  that  it  is  a  duty  to  do  the  one 
thing  and  avoid  the  other,  and  stores  up  this 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY       129 

doctrine  in  conscience.  We  know  this  order 
again  under  the  aspect  of  joy,  for  joy  attends 
some  choices,  and  sorrow  others;  and  again 
under  the  aspect  of  beauty,  for  certain  choices 
result  in  beauty  and  others  in  deformity. 
What  I  maintain  is  that  this  order  exists  under 
four  aspects,  and  may  be  learned  in  any  of  them 
— as  an  order  of  truth  in  the  reason,  as  an  order 
of  virtue  in  the  will,  as  an  order  of  joy  in  the 
emotions,  as  an  order  of  beauty  in  the  senses. 
It  is  the  same  order,  the  same  body  of  law,  oper- 
ating in  each  case ;  it  is  the  vital  force  of  our 
fourfold  life,  —  it  has  one  unity  in  the  intellect, 
the  will,  the  emotions,  the  senses,  —  is  equal  to 
the  whole  nature  of  man,  and  responds  to  him 
and  sustains  him  on  every  side.  A  lover  of 
beauty  in  whom  conscience  is  feeble  cannot 
wander  if  he  follow  beauty ;  nor  a  cold  thinker 
err,  though  without  a  moral  sense,  if  he  accept 
truth ;  nor  a  just  man,  nor  a  seeker  after  pure 
joy  merely,  if  they  act  according  to  knowledge 
each  in  his  sphere.  The  course  of  action  that 
increases  life  may  be  selected  because  it  is  rea- 
sonable, or  joyful,  or  beautiful,  or  right;  and 
therefore  one  may  say  fearlessly,  choose  the 
things  that  are  beautiful,  the  things  that  are 


130  HEART   OF   MAN 

joyful,  the  things  that  are  reasonable,  the  things 
that  are  right,  and  all  else  shall  be  added  unto 
you.  The  binding  force  in  this  order  is  what 
literature,  ideal  literature,  most  brings  out  and 
emphasizes  in  its  generalizations,  that  causal 
union  which  has  hitherto  been  spoken  of  in  the 
region  of  plot  only ;  but  it  exists  in  every  aspect 
of  this  order,  and  literature  universalizes  ex- 
perience in  all  these  realms,  in  the  provinces 
of  beauty  and  passion  no  less  than  in  those  of 
virtue  and  knowledge,  and  its  method  is  the 
same  in  all. 

Is  not  our  knowledge  of  this  fourfold  order 
in  its  principles,  in  those  relations  of  its  phe- 
nomena which  constitute  its  laws,  of  the  high 
est  importance  of  anything  of  human  concern? 
In  harmony  with  these  laws,  and  only  thus,  we 
ourselves,  in  whom  this  order  is,  become  happy, 

righteous,  wise,  and  beautiful.     In  ideal  litera- 

* «,       '    *  '"*•'  in  .^ 

ture  this  knowledge  is  found,  expressed,  and 
handed  down  age  after  age  —  the  knowledge 
of  necessary  and  permanent  relations  in  these 
great  spheres  which,  taken  together,  exhaust 
the  capacities  of  life.  Man's  moral  sense  is 
strong  in  proportion  as  he  apprehends  necessity 
in  the  sequence  of  will  and  act;  his  intellect 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      131 

is  strong,  his  emotions,  his  sense  of  beauty, 
are  strong  in  the  same  way  in  proportion  as 
he  apprehends  necessity  in  each  several  field 
of  experience.  And  conversely,  the  weakness  of 
the  intellect  lies  in  a  greater  or  less  failure  to 
realize  relations  of  fact  in  their  logic ;  and  the 
other  faculties,  in  proportion  as  they  fail  to 
realize  such  relations  in  their  own  region,  have 
a  similar  incapacity.  Insanity,  in  the  broad 
sense,  is  involuntary  error  in  a  nature  incapa- 
ble of  effectual  enlightenment,  and  hence  abnor- 
mal or  diseased ;  but  the  state  of  error,  whether 
more  or  less,  whether  voluntary  or  involuntary, 
whether  curable  or  incurable,  in  itself  is  the 
same.  To  take  an  example  from  one  sphere,  in 
the  moral  world  the  criminal  through  ignorance 
of  or  distrust  in  or  revolt  from  the  supreme 
divine  law  seeks  to  maintain  himself  by  his  own 
power  solitarily  as  if  he  might  be  a  law  unto 
himself;  he  experiences,  without  the  interven- 
tion of  any  human  judge,  the  condemnation 
which  consigns  him  to  enfeeblement  and  extinc- 
tion through  the  decay  and  death  of  his  nature, 
as  a  moral  being,  stage  by  stage ;  this  is  God's 
justice,  visiting  sin  with  death.  Similarly,  and 
to  most  more  obviously,  in  society  itself,  the 


132  HEART  OF   MAN 

criminal  against  society,  because  he  does  not 
understand,  or  believe,  or  prefers  not  to  accept 
arbitrary  social  law  as  the  means  by  which 
necessarily  the  general  good,  including  his  own, 
is  worked  out,  seeks  to  substitute  for  it  his  own 
intelligence,  his  cunning,  in  his  search  for  pros- 
perity, as  he  conceives  it,  by  an  adaptation  of 
means  to  ends  on  his  own  account.  This  is  why 
the  imperfection  of  human  law  is  sometimes  a 
just  excuse  for  social  crime  in  those  whom 
society  does  not  benefit,  its  slaves  and  pariahs. 
But  whether  in  God's  world  or  in  man's,  the 
mind  of  the  criminal,  disengaging  itself  from 
reliance  on  the  whole  fabric  for  whatever  rea- 
son, pulverizes  because  he  fails  to  realize  the 
necessary  relations  of  the  world  in  which  he 
lives  in  their  normal  operation,  and  has  no 
effectual  belief  in  them  as  unavoidably  operant 
in  his  nature  or  over  his  fortunes.  This  was 
the  truth  that  lay  in  the  Platonic  doctrine  that 
all  sin  is  ignorance  ;  but  Plato  did  not  take 
account  of  any  possible  depravity  in  the  will. 
Nor  is  what  has  been  illustrated  above  true  of 
the  mind  and  the  will  only.  In  the  region  of 
emotion  and  of  beauty,  there  may  be  similar 
aberration,  if  these  are  not  grasped  in  their  vital 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY       133 

nature,  in   organic    relation    to    the   whole   of 
life. 

These  several  parts  of  our  being  are  not  inde- 
pendent of  one  another,  but  are  in  the  closest 
alliance.  They  act  conjointly  and  with  one  result 
in  the  single  soul  in  which  they  find  their  unity 
as  various  energies  of  one  personal  power.  It 
cannot  be  that  contradiction  should  arise  among 
them  in  their  right  operation,  nor  the  error  of 
one  continue  undetected  by  the  others ;  that  the 
base  should  be  joyful  or  the  wicked  beautiful 
in  reality,  is  impossible.  In  the  narrow  view 
the  lust  of  the  eye  and  the  pride  of  life  may 
seem  beautiful,  but  in  the  broad  perspective  of 
the  inward  world  they  take  on  ugliness ;  in  the 
moment  they  may  seem  pleasurable,  but  in  the 
backward  reach  of  memory  they  take  on  pain  ; 
to  assert  eternity  against  the  moment,  to  see 
life  in  the  whole,  to  live  as  if  all  of  life  were 
concentrated  in  its  instant,  is  the  chief  labour  of 
the  mind,  the  eye,  the  heart,  the  enduring  will, 
all  together.  To  represent  a  villain  as  attrac- 
tive is  an  error  of  art,  which  thus  misrepresents 
the  harmony  of  our  nature.  Satan,  as  conceived 
by  Milton,  may  seem  to  be  a  majestic  figure,  but 
he  was  not  so  to  Milton's  imagination.  "  The 


134  HEART  OF  MAN 

infernal  Serpent "  is  the  first  name  the  poet 
gives  him ;  and  though  sublime  imagery  of 
gloom  and  terror  is  employed  to  depict  his 
diminished  brightness  and  inflamed  malice, 
Milton  repeatedly  takes  pains  to  degrade  him 
to  the  eye,  as  when  in  Paradise  he  is  surprised 
at  the  ear  of  Eve  "  squat  like  a  toad " ;  and 
when  he  springs  up  in  his  own  form  there,  as 
the  "  grisly  king,"  he  mourns  most  his  beauty 
lost;  neither  is  his  resolute  courage  long  ad- 
mirable. To  me,  at  least,  so  far  from  having 
any  heroic  quality,  he  seems  always  the  malign 
fiend  sacrificing  innocence  to  an  impotent  re- 
venge. In  all  great  creations  of  art  it  is  neces- 
sary that  this  consistency  of  beauty,  virtue, 
reasonpand  joy  should  be  preserved. 

It  is  true  that  the  supremacy  of  law  in  this 
inward  world,  so  constituted,  is  less  realized  than 
in  the  physical  world ;  but  even  in  the  latter  the 
wide  conviction  of  its  supremacy  is  a  recent 
thing,  and  in  some  parts  of  nature  it  is  still 
lightly  felt,  especially  in  those  which  touch  the 
brain  most  nearly,  while  under  the  stress  of  ex- 
ceptional calamity  or  strong  desire  or  traditional 
religious  beliefs  it  often  breaks  down.  But  if 
the  order  of  the  material  universe  seems  now  a 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  136 

more  settled  thing  than  the  spiritual  law  of  the 
soul,  once  the  case  was  reversed;  God  was 
known  and  nature  miraculous.  It  must  be 
remembered,  too,  in  excuse  of  our  feebleness 
of  faith,  that  we  are  born  bodily  into  the  physi- 
cal world  and  are  forced  to  live  under  its  law; 
but  life  in  the  spiritual  world  is  more  a  matter 
of  choice,  at  least  in  respect  to  its  degree ;  its 
phenomena  are,  in  part,  contingent  upon  our 
development  and  growth,  on  our  living  habitu- 
ally and  intelligently  in  our  higher  nature,  the 
laws  of  which  as  communicated  to  us  by  other 
minds  are  in  part  prophecies  of  experience  not 
yet  actual  in  ourselves.  It  is  the  touchstone  of 
experience,  after  all,  that  tries  all  things  in  both 
worlds,  and  experience  in  the  spiritual  world 
may  be  long  delayed ;  it  is  power  of  mind  that 
makes  wide  generalizations  in  both ;  and  the  con- 
ception of  spiritual  law  is  the  most  refined  as 
perhaps  it  is  the  most  daring  of  human  thoughts. 
The  expansion  of  the  conception  of  ideal  lit- 
erature so  as  to  embrace  these  other  aspects,  in 
addition  to  that  of  rational  knowledge  which  has 
thus  far  been  exclusively  dwelt  upon,  requires 
us  to  examine  its  nature  in  the  regions  of  beauty, 
joy,  and  conscience,  in  which,  though  generali- 


136  HEART  OP  MAN 

zation  remains  its  intellectual  method,  it  does 
not  make  its  direct  appeal  to  the  mind.  It  is 
not  enough  to  show  that  the  creative  reason  in 
its  intellectual  process  employs  that  common 
method  which  is  the  parent  of  all  true  know- 
ledge, and  by  virtue  of  its  high  matter,  which 
is  the  divine  order  in  the  soul,  holds  the  pri- 
macy among  man's  faculties;  the  story  were 
then  left  half  told,  and  the  better  part  yet  to 
come.  To  enlighten  the  mind  is  a  great  func- 
tion ;  but  in  the  mass  of  mankind  there  areTew 
who  are  accessible  to  ideas  as  such,  especially  on 
the  unworldly  side  of  life,  or  interested  in  them. 
Idealism  does  not  confine  its  service  to  the 
narrow  bounds  of  intellectuality.  It  has  a, 
second  and  greater  office,  which  is  to  charm 
the  soul.  So  characteristic  of  it  is  this  power, 
so  eminent  and  shining,  that  thence  only  springs 
the  sweet  and  almost  sacred  quality  breathing 
from  the  word  itself.  Idealism,  indeed,  by  the 
garment  of  sense  does  not  so  much  clothe 
wisdom  as  reveal  her  beauty;  so  the  Greek 
sculptor  discloses  the  living  form  by  the  plastic 
folds.  Truth  made  virtue  is  her  work  of  power, 
and  she  imposes  upon  man  no  harder  task  than 
the  mere  beholding  of  that  sight  — 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      137 

"  Virtue  in  her  shape  how  lovely," 

which  since  it  first  abashed  the  devil  in  Para- 
dise makes  wrong-doers  aware  of  their  deform- 
ity, and  yet  has  such  subtle  and  penetrating 
might,  such  fascination  for  all  finer  spirits, 
that  they  have  ever  believed  with  their  master, 
Plato,  that  should  truth  show  her  countenance 
unveiled  and  dwell  on  earth,  all  men  would 
worship  and  follow  her. 

The  images  of  Plato  —  those  images  in  which 
alone  he  could  adequately  body  forth  his  intui- 
tions of  eternity  —  present  the  twofold  attitude 
of  our  nature,  in  mind  and  heart,  toward  the 
ideal  with  vivid  distinctness ;  and  they  illus- 
trate the  more  intimate  power  of  beauty,  the 
more  fundamental  reach  of  emotion,  and  the 
richness  of  their  mutual  life  in  the  soul.  Un- 
der the  aspect  of  truth  he  likens  our  know- 
ledge of  the  ideal  to  that  which  the  prisoners 
of  the  cave  had  of  the  shadows  on  the  wall; 
under  the  aspect  of  beauty  he  figures  our  love 
for  it  as  that  of  the  passionate  lover.  As  truth, 
again,  —  taking  up  in  his  earliest  days  what 
seems  the  primitive  impulse  and  first  thought  of 
man  everywhere  and  at  all  times,  —  under  the 
image  of  the  golden  chain  let  down  from  the 


138  HEART  OF   MAN 

throne  of  the  god,  he  sets  forth  the  heavenly 
origin  of  the  ideal  and  its  descent  on  earth  by 
divine  inspiration  possessing  the  poet  as  its  pas- 
sive instrument ;  and  later,  bringing  in  now  the 
cooperation  of  man  in  the  act,  he  again  pre- 
sents the  ideal  as  known  by  reminiscence  of 
the  soul's  eternal  life  before  birth,  which  is 
only  a  more  defined  and  rationalized  concep- 
tion of  inspiration  working  normally  instead 
of  by  the  special  act  and  favour  of  God.  As 
beauty,  again,  he  shows  forth  the  enthusiasm 
evoked  by  the  ideal  in  the  image  of  the  chari- 
oteer of  the  white  and  black  horses  mastering 
them  to  the  goal  of  love.  In  these  various 
ways  the  first  idealist  thought  out  these  dis- 
tinctions of  truth  and  beauty  as  having  a  real 
community,  though  a  divided  life  in  the  mind 
and  heart ;  and,  as  he  developed,  —  and  this  is 
the  significant  matter,  —  the  poet  in  him  con- 
trolling his  speech  told  ever  more  eloquently 
of  the  charm  with  which  beauty  draws  the  soul 
unto  itself,  fqr  to  the  poet  beauty  is  nearer  than 
truth.  It  is  the  persuasion  with  which  he  sets 
forth  this  charm,  rather  than  his  speculation, 
which  has  fastened  upon  him  the  love  of  later 
ages.  He  was  the  first  to  discern  in  truth  and 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      139 

beauty  equal  powers  of  one  divine  being,  and 
thus  to  effect  the  most  important  reconciliation 
ever  made  in  human  nature. 

So,  too,  from  the  other  great  source  of  the 
race's  wisdom,  we  are  told  in  the  Scriptures  that 
though  we  be  fallen  men,  yet  is  it  left  to  us  to 
lift  our  eyes  to  the  beauty  of  holiness  and  be 
healed;  for  every  ray  of  that  outward  loveli- 
ness which  strikes  upon  the  eye  penetrates  to 
the  heart  of  man.  Then  are  we  moved,  indeed, 
and  incited  to  seek  virtue  with  true  desire. 
Prophet  and  psalmist  are  here  at  one  with  the 
poet  and  the  philosopher  in  spiritual  sensitive- 
ness. At  the  height  of  Hebrew  genius  in  the 
personality  of  Christ,  it  is  the  sweet  attractive 
grace,  the  noble  beauty  of  the  present  life  incar- 
nated in  his  acts  and  words,  the  divine  reality 
on  earth  and  not,  as  Plato  saw  it,  in  a  world 
removed,  that  has  drawn  all  eyes  to  the  Judean 
hill.  The  years  lived  under  the  Syrian  blue 
were  a  rending  of  the  veil  of  spiritual  beauty 
which  has  since  shone  in  its  purity  on  men's 
gaze.  It  is  this  loveliness  which  needs  only 
to  be  seen  that  wins  mankind.  The  emotions 
are  enlisted ;  and,  however  we  may  slight  them 
in  practice,  the  habit  of  emotion  more  than  the 


140  HEART  OF  MAN 

habit  of  mind  enters  into  and  fixes  inward 
character.  More  men  are  saved  by  the  heart 
than  by  the  head;  more  youths  are  drawn  to 
excellence  by  noble  feelings  than  are  coldly 
reasoned  into  virtue  on  the  ground  of  gain. 
Some  there  are  among  men  so  colourless  in  blood 
that  they  embrace  the  right  on  the  mere  calcu- 
lation of  advantage,  but  they  seem  to  possess 
only  an  earthly  virtue ;  some,  beholding  the 
order  of  the  world,  desire  to  put  themselves  in 
tune  with  nature  and  the  soul's  law,  and  these 
are  of  a  better  sort;  but  most  fortunate  are 
they  who,  though  well-nurtured,  find  virtue  not 
in  profit,  nor  in  the  necessity  of  conforming  to 
implacable  law,  but  in  mere  beauty,  in  the  light 
of  her  face  as  it  first  comes  to  them  with  ripen- 
ing years  in  the  sweet  and  noble  nature  of  those 
they  grow  to  love  and  honour  among  the  living 
and  the  dead.  For  this  is  Achilles  made  brave, 
that  he  may  stir  us  to  bravery;  and  surely  it 
were  little  to  see  the  story  of  Pelops'  line  if  the 
emotions  were  not  awakened,  not  merely  for  a 
few  moments  of  intense  action  of  their  own 
play,  but  to  form  the  soul.  The  emotional  glow 
of  the  creative  imagination  has  been  once  men- 
tioned in  the  point  that  it  is  often  more  ab- 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY       141 

sorbed  in  the  beauty  and  passion  than  in  the 
intellectual  significance  of  its  work ;  here,  cor- 
respondingly, it  is  by  the  heart  to  which  it 
appeals  rather  than  by  the  mind  it  illumines 
that  it  takes  hold  of  youth. 

What,  then,  is  the  nature  of  this  emotional 
appeal  which  surpasses  so  much  in  intimacy, 
pleasure,  and  power  the  appeal  to  the  intellect? 
It  is  the  keystone  of  the  inward  nature,  that 
which  binds  all  together  in  the  arch  of  life. 
Emotion  has  some  ground,  some  incitement 
which  calls  it  forth ;  and  it  responds  with  most 
energy  to  beauty.  In  the  strictest  sense  beauty 
is  a  unity  of  relations  of  coexistence  in  coloured 
space  and  appeals  to  the  eye ;  it  is  in  space  what 
plot  is  in  time.  Like  plot,  it  is  deeply  engaged 
in  the  outward  world ;  it  exists  in  the  sensuous 
order,  and  it  shadows  forth  the  spiritual  order 
in  man  only  in  so  far  as  a  fair  soul  makes  the 
body  beautiful,  as  Spenser  thought,  —  the  mood, 
the  act,  and  the  habit  of  heroism,  love,  and  the 
like  nobilities  of  man,  giving  grace  to  form, 
feature,  and  attitude.  It  is  primarily  an  out- 
ward thing,  as  emotion,  which  is  a  phase  of 
personality,  is  an  inward  thing ;  what  the  neces- 
sary sequence  of  events,  the  chain  of  causation, 


142  HEART  OF  MAN 

is  to  plot,  —  its  cardinal  idea,  —  that  the  neces- 
sary harmony  of  parts,  the  chime  of  line  and 
colour,  is  to  beauty ;  thus  beauty  is  as  inevitable 
as  fate,  as  structurally  planted  in  the  form  and 
colour  of  the  universe  as  fate  is  in  its  temporal 
movement.  And  as  plot  has  its  characteristic 
unity  in  the  impersonal  order  of  God's  will, 
shown  in  time's  event,  so  beauty  has  its  char- 
acteristic unity  in  the  same  order  shown  in 
the  visible  creation  of  space.  It  is  true  that 
all  phenomena  are  perceived  by  the  mind,  and 
are  conditioned,  as  is  said,  by  human  modes 
of  perception ;  but  within  the  limits  of  the 
relativity  of  all  our  knowledge,  beauty  is  ini- 
tially a  sensuous,  not  a  spiritual,  thing,  and 
though  the  structure  of  the  human  eye  arranges 
the  harmonies  of  line  and  colour,  it  is  no  more 
than  as  the  form  of  human  thought  arranges 
cause  and  effect  and  other  primary  relations 
in  things;  beauty  does  not  in  becoming  hu- 
manly known  cease  to  be  known  as  a  thing 
external,  independent  of  our  will,  and  imposed 
on  us  from  without.  It  is  this  outward  real- 
ity, the  harmony  of  sense,  that  sculpture  and 
painting  add  in  their  types  to  the  interpre- 
tation they  otherwise  give  of  personality,  and 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      143 

often  in  them  this  physical  element  is  pre- 
dominant; and  in  the  purely  decorative  arts 
it  may  be  exclusive.  In  landscape,  which  is  in 
the  realm  of  beauty,  personality  altogether  dis- 
appears, unless,  indeed,  nature  be  interpreted 
in  the  mood  of  the  Psalmist  as  declaring  its 
Creator ;  for  the  reflection  which  the  presence 
of  man  may  cast  upon  nature  as  his  shadow  is 
not  expressive  of  any  true  personality  there 
abiding,  but  enters  into  the  scene  as  the  face  of 
Narcissus  into  the  brook.  The  pleasure  which 
the  mind  takes  in  beauty  is  only  a  part  of  its 
general  delight  in  order  of  any  sort ;  and  visible 
artistic  form  as  abstracted  from  the  world  of 
space  is  merely  a  species  of  organic  form  and 
is  included  in  it. 

The  eye,  however,  governs  so  large  a  part  of 
the  sensuous  field,  the  idea  of  beauty  as  a  unity 
of  space-relations  giving  pleasure  is  so  simple, 
and  the  experience  is  so  usual,  that  the  word 
has  been  carried  over  to  the  life  of  the  more 
limited  senses  in  which  analogous  phenomena 
arise,  differing  only  in  the  fact  that  they  exist 
in  another  sense.  Thus  in  the  dominion  of  the 
ear  especially,  we  speak  commonly  of  the  beauty 
of  music ;  but  the  life  of  the  minor  senses, 


144  HEART  OF  MAN 

touch,  taste,  and  smell,  is  composed  of  too 
simple  elements  to  allow  of  such  combination 
as  would  constitute  specific  form  in  ordinary 
apprehension,  though  in  the  blind  and  deaf 
the  possibility  of  high  and  intelligible  com- 
plexity in  these  senses  is  proved.  Similarly, 
the  term  is  carried  over  to  the  invisible  and 
inaudible  world  of  the  soul  within  itself,  and 
we  speak  of  the  beauty  of  Sidney's  act,  of 
Romeo's  nature,  and,  in  the  abstract,  of  the 
beauty  of  holiness,  and,  in  a  still  more  re- 
mote sphere,  of  the  beauty  of  a  demonstration 
or  a  hypothesis ;  by  this  usage  we  do  not  so 
much  describe  the  thing  as  convey  the  charm 
of  the  thing.  This  charm  is  more  intimate  and 
piercing  to  those  of  sensuous  nature  who  rejoice 
in  visible  loveliness  or  in  heard  melodies ;  but 
to  the  spiritually  minded  it  may  be  as  close  and 
penetrating  in  the  presence  of  what  is  to  them 
dearer  than  life  and  light,  and  is  beheld  only  by 
the  inner  eye.  It  is  this  charm,  whether  flow- 
ing from  the  outward  semblance  or  shining  from 
the  unseen  light,  that  wins  the  heart,  stirs  emo- 
tion, wakes  the  desire  to  be  one  with  this  order 
manifest  in  truth  and  beauty,  in  the  spirit  and 
the  body  of  things,  to  go  out  toward  it  in  love, 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      145 

to  identify  one's  being  with  it  as  the  order 
of  life,  mortal  and  immortal ;  last  the  will 
quickens,  and  its  effort  to  make  this  order  pre- 
vail in  us  and  possess  us  is  virtue.  The  act 
through  all  its  phases  is,  as  has  been  said,  one 
act  of  the  soul,  which  first  perceives,  then  loves, 
and  finally  wills.  Emotion  is  the  intermediary 
between  the  divine  order  and  the  human  will; 
it  responds  to  the  beauty  of  the  one  and  directs 
the  choice  of  the  other,  and  is  felt  in  either 
function  as  love  controlling  life  in  the  new 
births  of  the  spirit. 

The  emotion,  to  return  to  the  world  of  art, 
which  is  felt  in  the  presence  of  imaginary 
things  is  actual  in  us;  but  tho  attempt  is 
made  to  fix  upon  it  a  special  character  differ- 
entiating it  from  the  emotion  felt  in  the  pres- 
ence of  reality.  One  principle  of  difference 
is  sought  in  the  point  that  in  literature,  or 
in  sculpture  and  painting,  emotion  entails  no 
action ;  it  has  no  outlet,  and  is  without  prac- 
tical consequences ;  the  will  is  paralyzed  by  the 
fatuity  of  trying  to  influence  an  unreal  series  of 
events,  and  in  the  case  of  the  object  of  beauty 
in  statue  or  painting  by  the  impossibility  of 
possession.  The  world  of  art  is  thus  thought 


146  HEART  OF  MAN 

of  as  one  of  pure  contemplation,  a  place  of 
escape  from  the  difficulties,  the  pangs,  and  the 
incompleteness  that  beset  all  action.  It  is  true 
that  the  imagined  world  creates  special  condi- 
tions for  emotion,  and  that  the  will  does  not  act 
in  respect  to  that  world;  but  does  this  imply 
any  radical  difference  in  the  emotion,  or  does 
it  draw  after  it  the  consequence  that  the  will 
does  not  act  at  all  ?  Checked  emotion,  emotion 
dying  in  its  own  world,  is  common  in  life  ;  and 
so,  too,  is  contemplation  as  a  mode  of  approach 
to  beauty,  as  in  landscape,  or  even  in  human 
figures  where  there  is  no  thought  of  any  other 
possession  than  the  presence  of  beauty  before 
the  eye  and  soul ;  escape,  too,  into  a  sphere  of 
impersonality,  in  the  love  of  nature  or  the 
spectacle  of  life,  is  a  common  refuge.  Art 
does  not  give  us  new  faculties,  generate  un- 
known habits,  or  in  any  way  change  our  nature ; 
it  presents  to  us  a  new  world  only,  toward 
which  our  mental  behaviour  is  the  same  as  in 
the  rest  of  life.  Why,  then,  should  emotion, 
the  most  powerful  element  in  life,  be  regarded 
as  a  fruitless  thing  in  that  ideal  art  which  has 
thus  far  appeared  as  a  life  in  purer  energy  and 
higher  intensity  of  being  than  life  itself  ? 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  147 

The  distinction  between  emotion  depicted 
and  that  felt  in  response  must  be  kept  in  mind 
to  avoid  confusion,  for  both  sorts  are  present 
at  the  same  time.  In^JLitei'ature^emotion  may 
be  set  forth  as  a  phase  of  the  character  or  as 
a  term  in  the  plot ;  it  may  be  a  single  moment 
of  high  feeling  as  in  a  lyric  or  a  prolonged 
experience  as  in  a  drama ;  it  may  be  shown  in 
the  pure  type  of  some  one  passion  as  in  Romeo, 
or  in  the  various  moods  of  a  rich  nature  as  in 
Hamlet ;  but,  whether  it  be  predominant  or 
subordinate  in  any  work,  it  is  there  treated  in 
the  same  way  and  for  the  same  purpose  as 
other  materials  of  life.  What  happens  when 
literature  gives  us,  for  instance,  examples  of 
moral  experience?  It  informs  the  mind  of  the 
normal  course  of  certain  lines  of  action,  of  the 
inevitable  issues  of  life ;  it  breeds  habits  of  right 
thinking  in  respect  to  these ;  it  is  educative,  and 
though  we  do  not  act  at  once  upon  this  know- 
ledge, when  the  occasion  arises  we  are  prepared 
to  act.  So,  when,  literature  presents  examples 
of  emotional  experience,  it  informs  us  of  the 
nature  of  emotion,  its  causes,  occasions,  and 
results,  its  value  in  character,  its  influence  on 
action,  the  modes  of  its  expression;  it  breeds 

MMBMWMM 


148  HEAET  OF  MAN 

habits  of  right  thinking  in  respect  to  these,  and 
is  educative ;  and,  just  as  in  the  preceding  case, 
though  we  do  not  act  at  once  upon  this  know- 
ledge, when  the  occasion  arises  we  are  prepared 
to  act.  Concurrently  with  emotions  thus  objec- 
tively presented  there  arises  in  us  a  similar 
series  of  emotions  in  the  beholding;  by  sym- 
pathy we  ourselves  feel  what  is  before  us,  the 
emotions  there  are  also  in  us  in  proportion  as 
we  identify  ourselves  with  the  character;  or, 
in  proportion  as  our  own  individuality  asserts 
itself  by  revolt,  a  contrary  series  arises  of 
hatred,  indignation,  or  contempt,  of  pity  for 
the  character  or  of  terror  in  the  feeling  that 
what  has  happened  to  one  may  happen  to  us 
in  our  humanity.  We  are  taught  in  a  more 
intimate  and  vital  way  than  through  ideas 
alone ;  the  lesson  has  entered  into  our  bosoms ; 
we  have  lived  the  life.  Literature  is  thus  far 
more  powerfully  educative  emotionally  than 
intellectually ;  and  if  the  poet  has  worked  with 
wisdom,  he  has  bred  in  us  habits  of  right  feel- 
ing in  respect  to  life,  he  has  familiarized  our 
hearts  with  love  and  anger,  with  compassion 
and  fear,  with  courage,  with  resolve,  has  exer- 
cised us  in  them  upon  their  proper  occasions 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  14C 

and  in  their  noble  expression,  has  opened  to  us 
the  world  of  emotion  as  it  ought  to  be  in  show- 
ing us  that  world  as  it  is  in  men  with  all  its 
possibilities  of  baseness,  ugliness,  and  destruc- 
tion. This  is  the  service  which  literature  per- 
forms in  this  field.  Imagination  shows  us  a 
scheme  of  emotion  attending  the  scheme  of 
events  and  presents  it  in  its  general  connection 
with  life,  in  simple,  powerful,  and  complete  ex- 
pression, on  the  lines  of  inevitable  law  in  its 
sphere.  We  go  out  from  the  sway  of  this  im- 
agined world,  more  sensitive  to  life,  more  acces- 
sible to  emotion,  more  likely  and  more  capable, 
when  the  occasion  arises,  to  feel  rightly,  and  to 
carry  that  feeling  out  into  an  act.  In  all  litera- 
ture the  knowledge  gained  objectively,  whether 
of  action  or  emotion,  is  a  preparation  for  life ; 
but  this  intimate  experience  of  emotion  in  con- 
nection with  an  imagined  world  is  a  more  vital 
preparation,  and  enters  more  directly,  easily, 
and  effectually  into  men's  bosoms. 

Two  particular  phases  of  this  educative  power 
should  be  specifically  mentioned.  The  objective 
presentation  of  emotion  in  literature,  as  has 
been  often  observed,  corrects  the  perspective  of 
our  own  lives,  as  does  also  the  action  which  it 


150  HEART  OF   MAN 

envelops ;  and  by  showing  to  us  emotion  in 
intense  energy,  which  by  this  intensity  corre- 
sponds to  high  type  and  important  plot,  and  in 
a  compass  far  greater  than  is  normal  in  ordinary 
life,  the  portrayal  leads  us  better  to  bear  and 
more  justly  to  estimate  the  petty  trials,  the 
vexations,  the  insignificant  experiences  of  our 
career;  we  see  our  lives  in  a  truer  relation  to 
life  in  general,  and  avoid  an  overcharged  feel- 
ing in  regard  to  our  private  fortune.  And,  sec- 
ondly, the  subjective  emotion  in  ourselves  is 
educative  in  the  point  that  by  this  outlet  we  go 
out  of  ourselves  in  sympathy,  lose  our  egoism, 
and  become  one  with  man  in  general.  This  is 
an  escape  ;  but  not  such  as  has  been  previously 
spoken  of,  for  it  is  not  a  retreat.  There  is  no 
escape  for  us,  except  into  the  lives  of  others. 
In  nature  it  is  still  our  own  face  we  see  ;  and 
before  the  ideal  creations  of  art  we  are  still 
aware,  for  all  our  contemplation,  of  the  inef- 
fable yearning  of  the  thwarted  soul,  of  the 
tender  melancholy,  the  sadness  in  all  beauty, 
which  is  the  measure  of  our  separation  there- 
from, and  is  fundamental  in  the  poetic  tempera- 
ment. This  is  that  pain,  which  Plato  speaks  of 
—  the  pain  of  the  growing  of  the  wings  of  the 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  151 

spirit  as  they  unfold.  But  in  passing  into  the 
lives  of  other  men,  in  sharing  their  joys,  in 
taking  on  ourselves  the  burden  of  humanity,  we 
escape  from  our  self-prison,  we  leave  individ- 
uality behind,  we  unite  with  man  in  common ; 
so  we  die  to  ourselves  in  order  to  live  in  lives 
not  ours.  In  literature,  sympathy  and  that 
imagination  by  which  we  enter  into  and  com- 
prehend other  lives  are  most  trained  arid  devel- 
oped, made  habitual,  instinctive,  and  quick.  It 
begins  to  appear,  I  trust,  that  ideal  art  is  not 
only  one  with  our  nature  intellectually,  but  in 
all  ways ;  it  is  the  path  of  the  spirit  in  all 
things.  Moreover,  emotion  is  in  itself  simple ; 
it  does  not  need  generalization,  it  is  the  same 
in  all.  It  is  rather  a  means  of  universalizing 
the  refinements  of  the  intellect,  the  substantive 
idealities  of  imagination,  by  enveloping  them  in 
an  elementary,  primitive  feeling  which  they  call 
forth.  Poetry,  therefore,  especially  deals,  as 
Wordsworth  pointed  out,  in  the  primary  affec- 
tions, the  elementary  passions  of  mankind ;  and, 
whatever  be  its  intellectual  contents  of  nature 
or  human  events,  calls  these  emotions  forth  as 
the  master-spirit  of  all  our  seeing.  Emotion  is 
more  fundamental  in  us  than  knowledge ;  it 


152  HEART  OF  MAN 

is  more  powerful  in  its  working;  it  underlies 
more  deliberate  and  conscious  life  in  the  mind, 
and  in  most  of  us  it  rules,  as  it  influences  in 
all.  It  is  natural,  therefore,  to  find  that  its 
operation  in  art  is  of  graver  importance  than 
that  of  the  intellectual  faculty  so  far  as  the 
broad  power  of  art  over  men  is  concerned. 

Another  special  point  arises  from  the  fact 
that  some  emotions  are  painful,  and  the  ques- 
tion is  raised  how  in  literature  painful  emotions 
become  a  pleasure.  Aristotle's  doctrine  in  re- 
spect to  certain  of  these  emotions,  tragic  pity 
and  terror,  is  well  known,  though  variously  in- 
terpreted. He  regards  such  emotions  as  a  dis- 
charge of  energy,  an  exhaustion  and  a  relief, 
in  consequence  of  which  their  disturbing  pres- 
ence is  less  likely  to  recur  in  actual  life ;  it  is 
as  if  emotional  energy  accumulated,  as  vital 
force  is  stored  up  and  requires  to  be  loosed  in 
bodily  exercise ;  but  this,  except  in  the  point 
that  pity  and  terror,  if  they  do  accumulate  in 
their  particular  forms  latently,  are  specifically 
such  as  it  is  \vise  to  be  rid  of,  does  not  differ- 
entiate emotion  from  the  rest  of  our  powers  in 
all  of  which  there  is  a  similar  pleasure  in  exer- 
cising, an  exhaustion  and  a  relief,  with  less 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      163 

liability  of  immediate  recurrence ;  this  belongs 
to  all  expenditure  of  life.  It  is  not  credible  to 
me  that  painful  emotion,  under  the  illusions  of 
art,  can  become  pleasurable  in  the  common 
sense;  what  pleasure  there  is  arises  only  in 
the  climax  and  issue  of  the  action,  as  in  case 
of  the  drama  when  the  restoration  of  the  order 
that  is  joyful,  beautiful,  right,  and  wise  occurs ; 
in  other  words,  in  the  presence  of  the  final 
poetic  justice  or  reconciliation  of  the  disturbed 
elements  of  life.  But  here  we  come  upon 
darker  and  mysterious  aspects  of  our  general 
subject,  now  to  be  slightly  touched.  Tragedy 
dealing  with  the  discords  of  life  must  present 
painful  spectacles ;  and  is  saved  to  art  only  by 
its  just  ending.  Comedy,  which  similarly  deals 
with  discords,  is  endurable  only  while  these 
remain  painless.  Both  imply  a  defect  in  order, 
and  neither  would  have  any  place  in  a  perfect 
world,  which  would  be  without  pity,  fear,  or 
humour,  all  of  which  proceed  from  incongruities 
in  the  scheme.  Tragedy  and  comedy  belong 
alike  to  low  civilizations,  to  wicked,  brutal,  or 
ridiculous  types  of  character  and  disorderly 
events,  to  the  confusion,  ignorance,  and  igno- 
minies of  mankind ;  the  refinement  of  both  is  a 


154  HEART  OF  MAN 

mark  of  progress  in  both  art  and  civilization, 
and  foretells  their  own  extinction,  unless  indeed 
the  principle  of  evil  be  more  deeply  implanted 
in  the  universe  than  we  fondly  hope;  pathos 
and  humour,  which  are  the  milder  and  the 
kindlier  forms  of  tragedy  and  comedy,  must 
also  cease,  for  both  are  equally  near  to  tears. 
But  before  leaving  this  subject  it  is  interesting 
to  observe  how  in  the  Aristotelian  scheme  of 
tragedy,  where  it  was  little  thought  of,  the  ap- 
peal is  made  to  man's  whole  nature  as  here  out- 
lined—  the  plot  replying  to  reason,  the  scene 
to  the  sense  of  beauty,  the  katharsis  to  the  emo- 
tions, and  poetic  justice  to  the  will,  which  thus 
finds  its  model  and  exemplar  in  the  supremacy 
of  the  moral  law  in  all  tragic  art. 

This,  then,  being  the  nature  of  the  ideal  world 
in  its  whole  range  commensurate  with  our  be- 
ing, and  these  the  methods  of  its  intellectual 
and  emotional  appeal,  it  remains  to  examine  the 
world  of  art  in  itself,  and  especially  its  genesis 
out  of  life.  The  method  by  which  it  is  built  up 
has  long  been  recognized  to  be  that  of  imitation 
of  the  actual,  as  has  been  assumed  hitherto  in 
the  statement  that  all  art  is  concrete.  But  the 
concrete  which  art  creates  is  not  a  copy  of  the 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      155 

concrete  of  life  ;  it  is  more  than  this.  The  mind 
takes  the  particulars  of  the  world  of  sense  into 
itself,  generalizes  them,  and  frames  therefrom  a 
new  particular,  which  does  not  exist  in  nature  ; 
it  is,  in  fact,  nature  made  perfect  in  an  imagined 
instance,  and  so  presented  to  the  mind's  eye,  or 
to  the  eye  of  sense.  The  pleasure  which  imi- 
tation gives  has  been  often  and  diversely  ana- 
lyzed ;  it  may  be  that  of  recognition,  or  that  of 
new  knowledge  satisfying  our  curiosity  as  if 
the  original  were  present,  or  that  of  delight  in 
the  skill  of  the  artist,  or  that  of  interest  in  see- 
ing how  his  view  differs  from  our  own,  or  that 
of  the  illusion  created  for  us ;  but  all  these 
modes  of  pleasure  exist  when  the  imitation  is  an 
exact  copy  of  the  original,  and  they  do  not 
characterize  the  artistic  imitation  in  any  way  to 
differentiate  its  peculiar  pleasure.  It  is  that 
element  which  artistic  imitation  adds  to  actual- 
ity, the  difference  between  its  created  concrete 
and  the  original  out  of  which  that  was  devel- 
oped, which  gives  the  special  delight  of  art  to 
the  mind.  It  is  the  perfection  of  the  type,  the 
intensity  of  the  emotion,  the  inevitability  of 
the  plot,  —  it  is  the  pure  and  intelligible  form 
disclosed  in  the  phases  and  movement  of  life,  dis- 


156  HEART  OF  MAN 

engaged  and  set  apart  for  the  contemplation  of 
the  mind,  —  it  is  the  purging  of  the  sensual  eye, 
enabling  it  to  see  through  the  mind  as  the  mind 
first  saw  through  it,  which  renders  the  world  of 
art  the  new  vision  it  is,  the  revelation  accom- 
plished by  the  mind  for  the  senses.  If  the  world 
of  art  were  only  a  reduplication  of  life,  it  would 
give  only  the  pleasures  that  have  been  men- 
tioned; but  its  true  pleasure  is  that  which  it 
yields  from  its  supersensual  element,  the  reason 
which  has  entered  into  it  with  ordering  power. 
In  the  world  thus  created  there  will  remain  the 
imperfections  which  are  due  to  the  limitation  of 
the  artist,  in  knowledge,  skill,  and  choice. 

It  will  be  said  at  once  that  all  these  concrete 
representations  necessarily  fail  to  realize  the 
artist's  thought,  and  are  inadequate,  inferior  in 
exactness,  to  scientific  and  philosophic  know- 
ledge ;  in  a  measure  this  is  true,  and  would  be 
important  if  the  method  of  art  were  demonstra- 
tive, instead  of  being,  as  has  been  said,  experi- 
mental and  inductive.  So,  too,  all  thinkers, 
using  the  actual  world  in  their  processes,  are  at 
a  disadvantage.  The  figures  of  the  geometer,  the 
quantities  of  the  chemist,  the  measurements  of 
the  astronomer,  are  inexact  approximations  to 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      157 

their  equivalent  in  the  mind.  Art,  as  an  em- 
bodiment in  mortal  images,  is  subject  to  the  con- 
ditions of  mortality.  Hence  arises  its  human 
history,  the  narrative  of  its  rise,  climax,  and 
decline  in  successive  ages.  The  course  of  art 
is  known ;  it  has  been  run  many  times ;  it  is  a 
simple  matter.  At  first  art  is  archaic,  the  sensi- 
ble form  being  rudely  controlled  by  the  artist's 
hand ;  it  becomes,  in  the  second  stage,  classical, 
the  form  being  adequate  to  the  thought,  a  trans- 
parent expression  ;  last,  it  is  decadent,  the  form 
being  more  than  the  thought,  dwarfing  it  by 
usurping  attention  on  its  own  account.  The 
peculiar  temptation  of  technique  is  always  to 
elaboration  of  detail ;  technique  is  at  first  a 
hope,  it  becomes  a  power,  it  ends  in  being  a 
caprice ;  and  always  as  it  goes  on  it  loses  sight 
of  the  general  in  its  rendering,  and  dwells  with 
a  near  eye  on  the  specific.  Nor  is  this  attention 
to  detail  confined  to  the  manner;  the  hand  of 
the  artist  draws  the  mind  after  it,  and  it  is  no 
longer  the  great  types  of  manhood,  the  impor- 
tant fates  of  life,  the  primary  emotions  in  their 
normal  course,  that  are  in  the  foreground  of 
thought,  but  the  individual  is  more  and  more,  the 
sensational  in  plot,  the  sentimental  in  feeling. 


168  HEART   OF   MAN 

This  tendency  to  detail,  which  is  the  hall- 
mark of  realism,  constitutes  decline.  It  arises 
partly  from  the  exhaustion  of  general  ideas, 
from  the  search  for  novelty  of  subject  and 
sensation,  from  the  special  phenomena  of  a 
decaying  society;  but,  however  manifold  may 
be  the  causes,  the  fact  of  decline  consists  in 
the  lessened  scope  of  the  matter  and  the  in- 
creased importance  of  the  form,  both  resulting 
in  luxuriant  detail.  Ideas  as  they  lose  gener- 
ality gain  in  intensity,  but  in  the  history  of  art 
this  has  not  proved  a  compensation.  In  Greece 
the  three  stages  are  clearly  marked  both  in  mat- 
ter and  manner,  in  ^Eschylus,  Sophocles,  and 
Euripides ;  in  England  less  clearly  in  Marlowe, 
Shakspere,  and  Webster.  How  monstrous  in 
the  latter  did  tragedy  necessarily  become!  yet 
more  repulsive  in  his  tenderer  companion-spirit, 
Ford.  In  Greek  sculpture,  passing  into  con- 
vulsed and  muscular  forms  or  forms  of  relaxed 
voluptuousness,  in  Italian  painting,  in  the  ro- 
mantic poetry  of  this  century  with  us,  the  same 
stages  are  manifest.  Age  parallels  age.  Tenny- 
son in  artistic  technique  is  Virgilian,  we  are 
aware  of  the  style ;  but  both  Virgil  and  Ten- 
nyson remain  classic  in  matter,  in  universality, 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY       159 

and  the  elemental  in  man.  Browning  in  sub- 
stance is  Euripidean,  being  individualistic,  psy- 
chologic, problematic,  with  special  pleading; 
classicism  had  departed  from  him,  and  left  not 
even  the  style  behind.  The  great  opposition 
lies  in  the  subject  of  interest.  Is  it  to  know 
ourselves  in  others  ?  Then  art  which  is  widely 
interpretative  of  the  common  nature  of  man 
results.  Is  it  to  know  others  as  different 
from  ourselves  ?  Then  art  which  is  specially 
interpretative  of  abnormal  individuals  in  ex- 
traordinary environments  results.  This  is  the 
opposition  between  realism  and  idealism,  while 
both  remain  in  the  limits  of  art,  as  these  terms 
are  commonly  used.  It  belongs  to  realism 
to  tend  to  the  concrete  of  narrow  application, 
but  with  fulness  of  special  trait  or  detail.  It 
belongs  to  idealism  to  tend  to  the  concrete  of 
broad  application,  but  without  peculiarity.  The 
trivial  on  the  one  hand,  the  criminal  on  the 
other,  in  the  individual,  are  the  extremes  of 
realistic  art,  while  idealism  rises  to  an  almost 
superhuman  emphasis  on  that  wisdom  and 
virtue,  and  the  beauty  clothing  them,  which  are 
the  goal  of  a  nation's  effort.  Race-ideas,  or 
generalizations  of  a  compact  and  homogeneous 


160  HEART  OF  MAN 

people  summing  up  their  serious  interpretations 
of  life,  their  moral  choices,  their  aspiration  and 
hope  in  the  lines  of  effort  that  seem  to  them 
highest,  are  the  necessary  matter  of  idealism; 
when  these  are  expressed  they  are  the  Greek 
spirit,  the  Roman  genius,  great  types  of  human- 
ity on  the  impersonal,  the  national  scale.  As 
these  historic  generalizations  dissolve  in  national 
decay,  art  breaks  up  in  individual  portrayal  of 
less  embracing  types;  the  glorification  of  the 
Greek  man  in  Achilles  yields  place  to  the  cor- 
ruptions of  the  homunculus ;  and  in  general 
the  literature  of  nationality  gives  way  to  the 
unmeaning  and  transitory  literal  are  of  a  society 
interested  in  its  vices,  superstitions,  and  sensa- 
tions. In  each  age  some  genius  stands  at  the 
centre  of  its  expression,  a  shining  nucleus  amid 
its  planetary  stars ;  such  was  Dante,  such  Virgil, 
such  Shakspere.  Few  indeed  are  the  races  that 
present  the  spectacle  of  a  double-sun  in  their 
history,  as  the  Hebrews  in  Psalm  and  Gospel, 
the  Greeks  in  Homer  and  in  Plato.  And  yet, 
all  this  enormous  range  of  life  and  death,  this 
flowering  in  centuries  of  the  human  spirit  in  its 
successive  creations,  reposes  finally  on  the  more 
or  less  general  nature  of  the  concretes  used  in 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  161 

its  art,  on  their  broad  or  narrow  truth,  on  their 
human  or  individualistic  significance.  The  dif- 
ference between  idealism  and  realism  is  not 
more  than  a  question  which  to  choose.  At  the 
further  end  and  last  remove,  when  all  art  has 
been  resolved  into  a  sensation,  an  effect,  lies 
impressionism,  which,  by  its  nature,  is  a  single 
phase  at  a  single  moment  as  seen  by  a  single 
being ;  but  even  then,  if  the  mind  be  normal,  if 
the  phase  be  veritable,  if  the  moment  be  that  of 
universal  beauty  which  Faust  bade  be  eternal, 
the  artistic  work  remains  ideal ;  but  on  the 
other  hand,  it  is  usually  the  eccentric  mind,  the 
abnormal  phase,  the  beauty  of  morbid  sensation 
that  are  rendered;  and  impressionism  becomes, 
as  a  term,  the  vanishing-point  of  realism  into 
the  moment  of  sense. 

The  world  of  art,  to  reach  its  last  limitation, 
through  all  this  wide  range  is  in  each  creation 
passed  through  the  mind  of  the  artist  and 
presented  necessarily  under  all  the  conditions 
of  his  personality.  His  nature  is  a  term  in  the 
process,  and  the  question  of  imperfection  or  of 
error,  known  as  the  personal  equation,  arises. 
Individual  differences  of  perceptive  power  in 
comprehending  what  is  seen,  and  of  narrative 


162  HEART   OF   MAN 

skill,  or  in  the  plastic  and  pictorial  arts  of 
manual  dexterity,  import  this  personal  element 
into  all  artistic  works,  the  more  in  proportion 
to  the  originality  of  the  maker  and  the  fulness 
of  his  self-expression.  In  rendering  from  the 
actual  such  error  is  unavoidable,  and  is  practi- 
cally admitted  by  all  who  would  rather  see  for 
themselves  than  take  the  account  of  a  witness, 
and  prefer  the  original  to  any  copy  of  it,  though 
they  thereby  only  substitute  their  own  error  for 
that  of  the  artist.  This  personal  error,  how- 
ever, is  easily  corrected  by  the  consensus  of 
human  nature. 

The  differences  in  personality  go  far  deeper 
than  this  common  liability  of  humanity  to 
mere  mistakes  in  sight  and  in  representation. 
The  isolating  force  that  creates  a  solitude 
round  every  man  lies  in  his  private  experi- 
ence, and  results  from  his  original  faculties 
and  the  special  conditions  of  his  environment, 
his  acquired  habits  of  attending  to  some  things 
rather  than  others  open  to  him,  the  choices  he 
has  made  in  the  past  by  which  his  view  of 
the  world  and  his  interest  in  it  have  been  de- 
termined. Memory,  the  mother  of  the  Muses, 
is  supreme  here ;  a  man's  memory,  which 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  163 

is  the  treasury  of  his  chosen  delights  in  life, 
characterizes  him,  and  differentiates  his  work 
from  that  of  others,  because  he  must  draw  on 
that  store  for  his  materials.  Thus  a  man's 
character,  or,  what  is  more  profound,  his  tem- 
perament, acting  in  conjunction  with  the  mem- 
ory it  has  built  up  for  itself,  is  a  controlling 
force  in  artistic  work,  and  modifies  it  in  the 
sense  that  it  presents  the  universal  truth  only 
as  it  exists  in  his  personality,  in  his  apprehen- 
sion of  it  and  its  meaning. 

Genius  is  this  power  of  personality,  and 
exists  in  proportion  as  the  man  differs  from 
the  average  in  ways  that  find  significant  ex- 
pression. This  difference  may  proceed  along 
two  lines.  It  may  be  aberration  from  normal 
human  nature,  due  to  circumstances  or  to  in- 
herent defect  or  to  a  thousand  causes,  but 
existing  always  in  the  form  of  an  inward  per- 
version approaching  disease  of  our  nature ; 
such  types  of  genius  are  pathological  and  may 
be  neglected.  It  may,  on  the  other  hand,  be 
development  of  normal  human  nature  in  high 
power,  and  it  then  exists  in  the  form  of  in- 
ward energy,  showing  itself  in  great  sensitive- 
ness to  outward  things,  in  mental  power  of 


164  HEART  OF  MAN 

comprehension,  in  creative  force  of  recombina- 
tion and  expression.  Of  genius  of  this  last 
sort  the  leaders  of  the  human  spirit  are  made. 
The  basis  of  it  is  still  human  faculty  dealing 
with  the  universe  —  the  same  faculty,  the 
same  universe,  that  are  common  to  mankind; 
but  with  an  extraordinary  power,  such  that  it 
can  reveal  to  men  at  large  what  they  of  them- 
selves might  never  have  arrived  at,  can  ad- 
vance knowledge  and  show  forth  goals  of 
human  hope,  can  in  a  word  guide  the  race. 
The  isolation  of  such  a  nature  is  necessarily 
profound,  and  intense  loneliness  has  ever  been 
a  characteristic  of  genius.  The  solvent  of  all 
personality,  however,  lies  at  last  in  this  fact 
of  a  common  world  and  a  common  faculty  for 
all,  resulting  in  an  experience  intelligible  to 
all,  even  if  unshared  by  them.  The  humanity 
of  genius  constitutes  its  sanity,  and  is  the 
ground  of  its  usefulness ;  though  it  lives  in  iso- 
lation, it  does  so  only  as  an  advanced  outpost 
may ;  it  expects  the  advent  of  the  race  behind 
and  below  it,  and  shows  there  its  signal  and 
sounds  there  its  call.  Its  escape  from  person- 
ality lies  in  its  identifying  itself  with  the  com- 
mon order  in  which  all  souls  shall  finally  be 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      166 

merged  and  be  at  one.  The  limitations  of 
genius  are  consequently  not  so  much  limita- 
tions as  the  abrogation  of  limits  in  the  ordinary 
sense ;  its  originality  of  insight,  interpretation, 
and  expression  broadens  the  human  horizons 
and  enriches  the  fields  within  them;  it  tells 
us  what  we  may  not  have  known  or  felt  or 
guessed,  but  what  we  shall  at  last  understand. 
Thus,  as  the  theory  of  art  is  most  fixed  in 
the  doctrine  of  order,  so  here  it  is  most  flexi- 
ble in  the  doctrine  of  personality,  through 
which  that  order  is  most  variously  set  forth 
and  illustrated.  Imitation,  so  far  from  becom- 
ing a  defective  or  false  method  because  of 
personality,  is  really  made  catholic  by  it,  and 
gains  the  variety  and  breadth  that  character- 
izes the  artistic  world  as  a  whole. 

The  element  of  self  which  thus  enters  into 
every  artistic  work  has  different  degrees  of 
importance.  In  objective  art,  it  is  clear  that  it 
enters  valuably  in  proportion  as  the  universe  is 
seized  by  a  mind  of  right  reason,  of  profound 
penetration,  of  truthful  imagination ;  and  if 
the  work  be  presented  enveloped  in  a  subjective 
mood,  while  it  remains  objective  in  contents,  as 
in  Virgil  the  mood  pervades  the  poem  so  deeply 


106  HEART  OF   MAN 

as  to  be  a  main  part  of  it,  then  the  mood  must 
be  one  of  those  felt  or  capable  of  being  felt 
universally,  —  the  profound  moods  of  the  medi- 
tative spirit  in  grand  works,  the  common  moods 
of  simple  joy  and  sorrow  in  less  serious  works. 
In  proportion  as  society  develops,  whether  in 
historic  states  singly  or  in  the  progress  of 
mankind,  the  direct  expression  of  self  for  its 
own  sake  becomes  more  usual ;  literature  be- 
comes more  personal  or  purely  subjective.  If 
the  poet's  private  story  be  one  of  action,  it  is 
plain  that  it  has  interest  only  as  if  it  were 
objectively  rendered,  from  its  being  illustra- 
tive of  life  in  general;  so,  too,  if  the  felt 
emotion  be  given,  this  will  have  value  from 
its  being  treated  as  typical ;  and,  in  so  far 
as  the  intimate  nature  of  the  poet  is  variously 
given  as  a  whole  in  his  entire  works,  it  has 
real  importance,  has  its  justification  in  art, 
only  in  so  far  as  he  himself  is  a  high  normal 
type  of  humanity.  The  truth  of  the  matter  is, 
in  fact,  only  a  detail  of  the  general  proposition 
that  in  art  history  has  no  value  of  its  own  as 
such;  for  the  poet  is  a  part  of  life  that  is,  and 
his  nature  and  career,  like  that  of  any  character 
or  event  in  history,  have  no  artistic  value  beyond 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      167 

their  universal  significance.  In  such  self-por- 
traiture there  may  be  sometimes  the  depicting  of 
a  depraved  nature,  such  as  Villon  ;  but  such  a 
type  takes  its  place  with  other  criminal  types 
of  the  imagination,  and  belongs  with  them  in 
another  sphere. 

This  element  of  self  finds  its  intense  expres- 
sion in  lyrical  love-poetry,  one  of  the  most 
enduring  forms  of  literature  because  of  its  ele- 
mentariness  and  universality ;  but  it  is  also 
found  in  other  parts  of  the  emotional  field. 
In  seeking  concrete  material  for  lyrical  use  the 
poet  may  take  some  autobiographical  incident, 
but  commonly  the  world  of  inanimate  nature 
yields  the  most  plastic  mould.  It  is  a  mar- 
vellous victory  of  the  spirit  over  matter  when 
it  takes  the  stars  of  heaven  and  the  flowers  of 
earth  and  makes  them  utter  forth  its  speech, 
less  as  it  seems  in  words  of  human  language 
than  in  the  pictured  hieroglyph  and  symphonic 
movement  of  natural  things ;  for  in  such  poetry 
it  is  not  the  vision  of  nature,  however  beautiful, 
that  holds  attention ;  it  is  the  colour,  form,  and 
imisic  of  things  externalizing,  visualizing  the 
inward  mood,  emotion,  or  passion  of  the  singer. 
Nature  is  emptied  of  her  contents  to  become 


168  HEART  OF  MAN 

the  pure  inhabitancy  of  one  human  soul.  The 
poet's  method  is  that  of  life  itself,  which  is  first 
awakened  by  the  beauty  without  to  thought 
and  feeling;  he  expresses  the  state  evoked  by 
that  beauty  and  absorbing  it.  He  identifies 
himself  with  the  objects  before  him  through 
his  joy  in  them,  and  entering  there  makes 
nature  translucent  with  his  own  spirit. 

Shelley's  Ode  to  the  West  Wind  is  the  emi- 
nent example  of  such  magical  power.  The 
three  vast  elements,  earth,  air,  and  water,  are 
first  brought  into  a  union  through  their  connec- 
tion with  the  west  wind ;  and,  the  wind  still 
being  the  controlling  centre  of  imagination,  the 
poet,  drawing  all  this  limitless  and  majestic 
imagery  with  him,  by  gradual  and  spontaneous 
approaches  identifies  himself  at  the  climax  of 
feeling  with  the  object  of  his  invocation, — 

"  Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one  ! " 

and  thence  the  poem  swiftly  falls  to  its  end  in 
a  lyric  burst  of  personality,  in  which,  while  the 
body  of  nature  is  retained,  there  is  only  a 
spiritual  meaning.  So  Burns  in  some  songs, 
and  Keats  in  some  odes,  following  the  same 
method,  make  nature  their  own  syllables,  as  of 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  169 

some  cosmic  language.  This  is  the  highest 
reach  of  the  artist's  power  of  conveying  through 
the  concrete  image  the  soul  in  its  pure  emo- 
tional life ;  and  in  such  poetry  one  feels  that 
the  whole  material  world  seems  lent  to  man  to 
expand  his  nature  and  escape  from  the  solitude 
in  which  he  is  born  to  that  divine  union  to 
which  he  is  destined.  The  evolution  of  this 
one  moment  of  passion  is  lyric  form,  whose 
unity  lies  in  personality  exclusively,  however 
it  may  seem  to  involve  the  external  world 
which  is  its  imagery,  —  its  body  lifted  from 
the  dust,  woven  of  light  and  air,  but  alive  only 
while  the  spirit  abides  there.  And  here,  too,  as 
elsewhere,  to  whatever  height  the  poet  may 
rise,  it  must  be  one  to  which  man  can  follow, 
to  which,  indeed,  the  poet  lifts  men.  Nor  is  it 
only  nature  which  thus  suffers  irpiritualization 
through  the  stress  of  imagination  interpreting 
life  in.  definite  and  sensible  forms  of  beauty, 
but  the  imagery  of  action  also  may  be  similarly 
taken  possession  of,  though  this  is  rare  in  merely 
lyrical  expression. 

The  ideal  world,  then,  to  present  in  full  sum- 
mary these  views,  is  thus  built  up,  through 
personality  in  all  its  richness,  by  a  perfected  imi- 


170  HEART  OF  MAN 

tation  of  life  itself,  and  is  set  forth  in  universal 
unities  of  relation,  causal  or  formal,  to  the  intel- 
lect in  its  inward,  to  the  sense  of  beauty  in 
its  outward,  aspects ;  and  thereby  delighting  the 
desire  of  the  mind  for  lucid  and  lovely  order,  it 
generates  joy,  and  thence  is  born  the  will  to 
conform  one's  self  to  this  order.  If,  then,  this 
order  be  conceived  as  known  in  its  principles 
and  in  operation  in  living  souls,  as  existing  in 
its  completeness  on  the  simplest  scale  in  an 
entire  series  of  illustrative  instances  but  with- 
out multiplicity,  —  if  it  be  conceived,  that  is,  as 
the  model  of  a  world,  —  that  would  be  to  know 
it  as  it  exists  to  the  mind  of  God ;  that  would 
be  to  contemplate  the  world  of  ideas  as  Plato 
conceived  it  seen  by  the  soul  before  birth. 
That  is  the  beatific  vision.  If  it  be  conceived 
in  its  mortal  movement  as  a  developing  world 
on  earth,  that  would  be  to  know  "  the  plot  of 
God,"  as  Poe  called  the  universe.  Art  en- 
deavours to  bring  that  vision,  that  plot,  however 
fragmentarily,  upon  earth.  It  is  a  world  of 
order  clothing  itself  in  beauty,  with  a  charm 
to  the  soul,  —  such  is  our  nature,  —  operative 
upon  the  will  to  live.  It  is  preeminently  a  vis- 
ion of  beauty.  It  is  true  that  this  beauty  which 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      171 

thus  wins  and  moves  us  seems  something  added 
by  the  mind  in  its  great  creations  rather  than 
anything  actual  in  life ;  for  it  is,  in  fact,  height- 
ened and  refined  from  the  best  that  man  has 
seen  in  himself,  and  it  partakes  more  of  hope 
than  of  memory.  Here  is  that  woven  robe  of 
illusion  which  is  so  hard  a  matter  to  those  who 
live  in  horizons  of  the  eye  and  hand.  Yet  as 
idealism  was  found  on  its  mental  side  harmo- 
nious with  reason  in  all  knowledge,  and  on 
its  emotional  side  harmonious  with  the  heart 
in  its  outgoings,  so  this  perfecting  tempera- 
ment that  belongs  to  it  and  most  characterizes 
it,  falls  in  with  the  natural  faith  of  mankind. 
Idealism  in  this  sense,  too,  existed  in  life  before 
it  passed  into  literature.  The  youth  idealizes 
the  maiden  he  loves,  his  hero,  and  the  ends 
of  his  life  ;  and  in  age  the  old  man  idealizes 
his  youth.  Who  does  not  remember  some 
awakening  moment  when  he  first  saw  virtue 
and  knew  her  for  what  she  is?  Sweet  was 
it  then  to  learn  of  some  Jason  of  the  golden 
fleece,  some  Lancelot  of  the  tourney,  some 
dying  Sydney  of  the  stricken  field.  There  was 
a  poignancy  in  this  early  knowledge  that  shall 
never  be  felt  again;  but  who  knows  not  that 


172  HEART  OF   MAN 

such  enthusiasm  which  earliest  exercised  the 
young  heart  in  noble  feelings  is  the  source 
of  most  of  good  that  abides  in  us  as  years 
go  on?  In  such  boyish  dreaming  the  soul 
learns  to  do  and  dare,  hardens  and  supples 
itself,  and  puts  on  youthful  beauty;  for  here 
is  its  palaestra.  Who  would  blot  these  from  his 
memory?  who  choke  these  fountain-heads,  re- 
membering how  often  along  life's  pathway  he 
has  thirsted  for  them?  Such  moments,  too, 
have  something  singular  in  their  nature,  and 
almost  immortal,  that  carries  them  echoing  far 
on  into  life  where  they  strike  upon  us  in 
manhood  at  chosen  moments  when  least  ex- 
pected; some  of  them  are  the  real  time  in 
which  we  live.  It  was  said  of  old  that  great 
men  were  creative  in  their  souls,  and  left  their 
works  to  be  their  race ;  these  ideal  heroes  have 
immortal  souls  for  their  children,  age  after  age. 
Shall  we  in  our  youth,  then,  in  generous  emula- 
tion idealize  the  great  of  old  times,  and  honour 
them  as  our  fair  example  of  what  we  most 
would  be?  Shall  we,  in  our  hearts,  idealize 
those  we  love,  —  so  natural  is  it  to  believe  in 
the  perfection  of  those  we  love,  —  and  even  if 
the  time  for  forgiveness  comes,  and  we  show 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      173 

them  the  mercy  that  our  own  frailty  teaches  us 
to  exercise,  shall  we  still  idealize  them,  since 
love  continues  only  in  the  persuasion  of  perfec- 
tion yet  to  come,  and  is  the  tenderer  because 
it  comes  with  struggle?  Whether  in  our  acts 
or  our  emotions  shall  we  give  idealism  this 
range,  and  deny  it  to  literature  which  discloses 
the  habits  of  our  daily  practice  in  more  perfec- 
tion and  with  greater  beauty?  There  we  find 
the  purest  types  to  raise  and  sustain  us;  to 
direct  our  choice,  and  reenforce  us  with  that 
emotion,  that  passion,  which  most  supports  the 
will  in  its  effort.  There  history  itself  is  taken 
up,  transformed,  and  made  immortal,  the  whole 
past  of  human  emotion  and  action  contained 
and  shown  forth  with  convincing  power.  Nor 
is  it  only  with  the  natural  habit  of  mankind 
that  idealism  falls  in,  but  with  divine  command. 
Were  we  not  bid  be  perfect  as  our  Father  in 
heaven  is  perfect  ?  And  what  is  that  image  of 
the  Christ,  what  is  that  world-ideal,  the  height 
of  human  thought,  but  the  work  of  the  creative 
reason,  —  not  of  genius,  not  of  the  great  in 
mind  and  fortunate  in  gifts,  but  of  the  race 
itself,  in  proud  and  humble,  in  saint  and  sinner, 
in  the  happy  and  the  wretched,  in  all  the  vast 


174  HEART  OF  MAN 

range  of  the  millions  of  the  dead  whose  thoughts 
live  embodied  in  that  great  tradition,  —  the 
supreme  and  perfected  pattern  of  mankind? 

Is  it  nevertheless  true  that  there  is  falsehood 
in  all  this  ?  that  men  were  never  such  as  the 
heart  believes  them,  nor  ideal  characters  able  to 
breathe  mortal  air  ?  by  indulging  our  emotions, 
do  we  deceive  ourselves,  and  end  at  last  in 
cynicism  or  despair?  Why,  then,  should  we 
not  boldly  affirm  that  the  falsehood  is  rather 
in  us,  in  the  defects  by  which  we  fail  of  per- 
fection, in  our  ignorant  error  and  voluntary 
wrong  ?  that  in  the  ideal,  free  as  it  is  from  the 
accidental  and  the  transitory,  inclusive  as  it  is 
of  the  common  truth,  lies,  as  Plato  thought,  the 
only  reality,  the  truth  which  outlasts  us  all? 
But  this  may  seem  a  subtle  evasion  rather  than 
a  frank  answer.  Let  us  rather  say  that  idealism 
is  one  of  the  necessary  modes  of  man's  faith, 
brings  in  the  future,  and  assumes  the  reality 
of  that  which  shall  be  actual ;  that  the  reality 
it  owns  is  that  of  the  rose  in  the  bud,  the  oak 
in  the  acorn,  the  planet  in  its  fiery  mist.  I 
believe  that  ideal  character  in  its  perfection  is 
potentially  in  every  man  who  is  born  into  the 
world.  We  forecast  the  future  in  other  parts 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      176 

of  life ;  why  should  we  not  forecast  ourselves  ? 
Would  he  not  be  thought  foolish  who  should 
refuse  to  embark  in  great  enterprises  of  trade, 
because  he  does  not  already  hold  the  wealth 
to  be  gained?  The  ideal  is  our  infinite  riches, 
more  than  any  individual  or  moment  can  hold. 
To  refuse  it  is  as  if  a  man  should  neglect  his 
estate  because  he  can  take  but  a  handful  of  it 
in  his  grasp.  It  is  the  law  of  our  being  to 
grow,  and  it  is  a  necessity  that  we  should  have 
examples  and  patterns  in  advance  of  us,  by 
which  we  can  find  our  way.  There  is  no  false- 
hood in  such  anticipation ;  there  is  only  a  faith 
in  truth  instead  of  a  possession  of  it.  Will  you 
limit  us  to  one  moment  of  time  and  place  ?  will 
you  say  to  the  patriot  that  his  country  is  a  geo- 
graphical term  ?  and  when  he  replies  that  rather 
is  it  the  life  of  her  sons,  will  you  point  him  to 
human  nature  as  it  seems  at  the  period,  to  cor- 
ruption, folly,  ignorance,  strife,  and  crime,  and 
tell  him  that  is  our  actual  America?  Will  he 
not  rather  say  that  his  America  is  a  great  past, 
a  future  whose  beneficence  no  man  can  sum  ? 
Is  there  any  falsehood  in  this  ideal  country  that 
men  have  ever  held  precious  ?  Did  Pericles  lie 
in  his  great  oration,  and  Virgil  in  his  noble 


17tf  HEART  OF  MAN 

poem,  and  Dante  in  his  fervid  Italian  lines? 
And  as  there  are  ideals  of  country,  so  also  of 
men,  of  the  soldier,  the  priest,  the  king,  the 
lover,  the  citizen,  and  beside  each  of  us  does 
there  not  go  one  who  mourns  over  our  fall 
and  pities  us,  gladdens  in  our  virtue,  and  shall 
not  leave  us  till  we  die ;  an  ideal  self,  who  is 
our  judgment?  and  if  it  be  yet  answered  that 
this  in  truth  is  so,  and  might  be  borne  but  for 
the  errors  of  the  idealizing  temperament,  shall 
we  not  reply  that  the  quack  does  not  discredit 
the  art  of  medicine,  nor  the  demagogue  the  art 
of  politics,  and  no  more  does  the  fool  in  all  his 
motley  the  art  of  literature. 

Must  I,  however,  come  back  to  my  answer, 
and  meet  those  who  aver  that  however  stimu- 
lating idealism  is  to  the  soul,  yet  it  must  be 
remembered  that  in  the  world  at  large  there  is 
nothing  corresponding  to  ideal  order,  to  poetic 
ethics,  and  that  to  set  these  forth  as  the  su- 
premacy of  what  ought  to  be  is  to  misrepresent 
life,  to  raise  expectations  in  youth  never  to  be 
realized,  to  pervert  practical  standards,  and  in 
brief  to  make  a  false  start  that  can  be  fruit- 
ful only  in  error,  in  subsequent  suffering  of 
mind,  and  with  material  disadvantage  ?  I  must 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  177 

be  frank :  I  own  that  I  can  perceive  in  Nature 
no  moral  order,  that  in  her  world  there  is  no 
knowledge  of  us  or  of  our  ideals,  and  that  in 
general  her  order  often  breaks  upon  man's  life 
with  mere  ruin,  irrational  and  pitiful ;  and  I  ac- 
knowledge, also,  the  prominence  of  evil  in  the 
social,  and  its  invasion  in  the  individual,  life 
of  man.  But,  again,  were  we  so  situated  that 
there  should  be  no  external  divine  order  ap- 
parent to  our  minds,  were  justice  an  accident 
and  mercy  the  illusion  of  wasted  prayer,  there 
would  still  remain  in  us  that  order  whose  work- 
ings are  known  within  our  own  bosom,  that  law 
\vhich  compels  us  to  be  just  and  merciful  in 
order  to  lead  the  life  that  we  recognize  to  be 
best,  and  the  whole  imperative  of  our  ideal, 
which,  if  we  fail  to  ourselves,  condemns  us, 
irrespective  of  what  future  attends  us  in  the 
world.  Ideal  order  as  the  mind  knows  it,  the 
mind  must  strive  to  realize,  or  stand  dis- 
honoured in  its  own  forum.  Within  us,  at 
least,  it  exists  in  hope  and  somewhat  in  reality, 
and  following  it  in  our  effort,  though  we  come 
merely  to  a  stoical  idea  of  the  just  man  on 
whom  the  heavens  fall,  we  should  yet  be  nobler 
than  the  power  that  made  us  souls  betrayed. 


178  HEART  OF  MAN 

But  there  is  no  such  difference  between  the 
world  as  it  is  and  the  world  as  ideal  art  pre- 
sents it. 

What,  then,  is  the  difference  between  art  and 
nature?  Art  is  nature  regenerate,  made  per- 
fect, suffering  the  new  birth  into  what  ought  to 
be ;  an  ordered  and  complete  world.  But  this 
is  the  vision  of  art  as  the  ultimate  of  good. 
Idealism  has  also  another  world,  of  which 
glimpses  have  already  appeared  in  the  course 
of  this  argument,  though  in  the  background. 
In  the  intellectual  sphere  evil  is  as  subject  to 
general  statement  as  is  good,  and  there  is  in  the 
strict  sense  an  idealization  of  evil,  a  universal 
statement  of  it,  as  in  Mephistopheles,  or  in 
more  partial  ways  in  lago,  Macbeth,  Richard 
III.  In  the  emotional  sphere  also  there  is  the 
throb  of  evil,  felt  as  diabolic  energy  and  pre- 
sented as  the  element  in  which  these  characters 
have  their  being.  Even  in  the  sphere  of  the 
will,  who  shall  say  that  man  does  not  know- 
ingly choose  evil  as  his  portion?  So,  too,  as 
the  method  of  idealism  in  the  world  of  the  good 
tends  to  erect  man  above  himself,  the  same 
generalizing  method  in  the  world  of  the  evil 
tends  to  degrade  human  nature  below  itself; 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  179 

the  extremes  of  the  process  are  the  divine  and 
the  devilish ;  both  transcend  life,  but  are  devel- 
oped out  of  it.  The  difference  between  these 
two  poles  of  ideality  is  that  the  order  of  one  is 
an  order  of  life,  that  of  the  other  an  order  of 
death.  Between  these  two  is  the  special  prov- 
ince of  the  human  will.  What  literature,  what 
all  art,  presents  is  not  the  ultimate  of  good  or 
the  ultimate  of  evil  separately;  it  is,  taking 
into  account  the  whole  range,  the  mixed  world 
becoming  what  it  ought  to  be  in  its  evolution 
from  what  it  is,  and  the  laws  of  that  progress. 
Hence  tragedy  on  the  one  hand  and  comedy,  or 
more  broadly  humour,  on  the  other  hand,  have 
their  great  place  in  literature ;  for  they  are 
forms  of  the  intermediate  world  of  conflict.  I 
speak  of  the  spiritual  world  of  man's  will.  We 
may  conceive  of  the  world  optimistically  as 
a  place  in  which  all  shall  issue  in  good  and 
nothing  be  lost;  or  as  a  place  in  which,  by 
alliance  with  or  revolt  from  the  forces  of  life, 
the  will  in  its  voluntary  and  individual  action 
may  save  or  lose  the  soul  at  its  choice.  We 
may  think  of  God  as  conserving  all,  or  as 
permitting  hell,  which  is  death.  We  do  not 
know.  But  as  shown  to  us  in  imagination, 


180  HEART   OF   MAN 

idealism,  which  is  the  race's  dream  of  truth, 
hovers  between  these  two  worlds  known  to  us 
in  tendency  if  not  in  conclusion,  —  the  world 
of  salvation  on  the  one  hand,  in  proportion  as  the 
order  of  life  is  made  vital  in  us,  the  world  of 
damnation  on  the  other  hand,  in  proportion  as 
the  order  of  death  prevails  in  our  will ;  but  thf 
main  effort  of  idealism  is  to  show  us  the  war 
between  the  two,  with  an  emphasis  on  the  be- 
coming of  the  reality  of  beauty,  joy,  reason,  and 
virtue  in  us.  Not  that  prosperity  follows  right- 
eousness, not  that  poverty  attends  wickedness, 
in  worldly  measure,  but  that  life  is  the  gift  of  a 
right  will  is  her  message ;  how  we,  striving  for 
eternal  life,  may  best  meet  the  chances  and  the 
bitter  fates  of  mortal  existence,  is  her  brooding 
care ;  ideal  characters,  or  those  ideal  in  some 
trait  or  phase,  in  the  midst  of  a  hostile  environ- 
ment, are  her  fixed  study.  So  far  is  idealism 
from  ignoring  the  actual  state  of  man  that  it 
most  affirms  its  pity  and  evil  by  setting  them 
in  contrast  with  what  ought  to  be,  by  showing 
virtue  militant  not  only  against  external  enemies 
but  those  inward  weaknesses  of  our  mortality 
with  its  passion  and  ignorance,  which  are  our 
most  undermining  and  intimate  foes.  Here  is 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  181 

no  false  world,  but  just  that  world  which  is  our 
theatre  of  action,  that  confused  struggle,  rep- 
resented in  its  intelligible  elements  in  art,  that 
world  of  evil,  implicit  in  us  and  the  universe, 
which  must  be  overcome ;  and  this  is  revealed 
to  us  in  the  ways  most  profitable  for  our  instruc- 
tion, who  are  bound  to  seek  to  realize  the  good 
through  all  the  strokes  of  nature  and  the  folly 
and  sin  of  men.  Ideal  literature  in  its  broad 
compass,  between  its  opposed  poles  of  good  and 
evil,  is  just  this :  a  world  of  order  emerging 
from  disorder,  of  beauty  and  wisdom,  of  virtue 
and  joy,  emerging  from  the  chaos  of  things  that 
are,  in  selected  and  typical  examples. 

It  follows  from  this  that  what  remains  in 
the  world  of  observation  in  personality  or  ex- 
perience, whether  good  or  evil,  whether  par- 
ticular or  general,  not  yet  coordinated  in 
rational  knowledge  as  a  whole,  all  for  which 
no  solution  is  found,  all  that  cannot  be  or  has 
not  been  made  intelligible,  must  be  the  sub- 
ject-matter of  realism  in  the  exact  use  of  that 
term.  This  must  be  recorded  by  literature,  or 
admitted  into  it,  as  matter-of-fact  which  is  to 
the  mind  still  a  problem.  Earthly  mystery 
therefore  is  the  special  sphere  of  realism. 


182  HEART  OF   MAN 

The  borderland  of  the  unknown  or  the  irre- 
ducible is  its  realm.  This  old  residuum,  this 
new  material,  is  not  yet  capable  of  art.  Hence, 
too,  realism  in  this  sense  characterizes  ages  of 
expansion  of  knowledge  such  as  ours.  The 
new  information  which  is  the  fruit  of  our  wide 
travel,  of  our  research  into  the  past,  has  en- 
larged the  problem  of  man's  life  by  showing 
us  both  primitive  and  historical  humanity  in 
its  changeful  phases  of  progress  working  out 
the  beast ;  and  this  new  interest  has  been  ree'n- 
forced  by  the  attention  paid,  under  influences 
of  democracy  and  philanthropy,  to  the  lower 
and  baser  forms  of  life  in  the  masses  under 
civilization,  which  has  been  a  new  revelation  of 
persistent  savagery  in  our  midst.  Here  realism 
illustrates  its  service  as  a  gatherer  of  knowledge 
which  may  hereafter  be  reduced  to  orderliness 
by  idealistic  processes,  for  idealism  is  the  organ- 
izer of  all  knowledge.  But  apart  from  this 
incoming  of  facts,  or  of  laws  not  yet  harmo- 
nized in  the  whole  body  of  law,  for  which  we 
may  have  fair  hope  that  a  synthesis  will  be 
found,  there  remains  forever  that  residuum  of 
which  I  spoke,  which  has  resisted  the  intelli- 
gence of  man,  age  after  age,  from  the  first 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  183 

throb  of  feeling,  the  first  ray  of  thought ;  that 
involuntary  evil,  that  unmerited  suffering,  that 
impotent  pain,  —  the  human  debris  of  the  social 
process,  —  which  is  a  challenge  to  the  power 
of  God,  and  a  cry  to  the  heart  of  man  that 
broods  over  it  in  vain,  yet  cannot  choose  but 
hear.  In  this  region  the  near  affinity  of  realism 
to  pessimism,  to  atheism,  is  plain  enough;  its 
necessary  dealing  with  the  base,  the  brutal, 
the  unredeemed,  the  hopeless  darkness  of  the 
infamies  of  heredity,  criminal  education,  and 
successful  malignity,  eating  into  the  being  as 
well  as  controlling  the  fortune  of  their  victims, 
is  manifest;  and  what  answer  has  ever  been 
found  to  the  interrogation  they  make?  It  is 
not  merely  that  particular  facts  are  here  irrec- 
oncilable ;  but  laws  themselves  are  discernible, 
types  even  not  of  narrow  application,  which 
have  not  been  brought  into  any  relation  with 
what  I  have  named  the  divine  order.  Millions 
of  men  in  thousands  of  years  are  included  in 
this  holocaust  of  past  time,  —  eras  of  savagery, 
Assyrian  civilizations,  Christian  butcheries,  the 
Czar  yet  supreme,  the  Turk  yet  alive. 

And  how  is  it  at  the  other  pole  of  mystery, 
where  life  rises  into  a  heavenly  vision  of  eter- 


184  HEART  OF  MAN 

nities  of  love  to  come?  There  is  no  place  for 
realism  here,  where  observation  ceases  and  our 
only  human  outlook  is  by  inference  from  prin- 
ciples and  laws  of  the  ideal  world  as  known 
to  us;  yet  what  problems  are  we  aware  of? 
Must,  —  to  take  the  special  problem  of  art, — 
must  the  sensuous  scheme  of  life  persist,  since 
of  it  warp  and  woof  are  woven  all  our  possi- 
bilities of  communication,  all  our  capabilities 
of  knowledge?  it  is  our  language  and  our 
memory  alike.  Must  God  be  still  thought  of 
in  the  image  of  man,  since  only  in  terms  of 
our  humanity  can  we  conceive  even  divine 
things,  whether  in  forms  of  mortal  pleasure  as 
the  Greeks  framed  their  deities,  or  in  shapes  of 
spiritual  bliss  as  Christians  fashion  saint,  angel, 
and  archangel  ?  These  are  rather  philosophical 
problems.  But  in  art,  as  at  the  realistic  end 
of  the  scale,  we  admit  the  portraiture,  as  a 
part  of  life,  of  the  bestial,  the  cruel,  the  un- 
forgiven,  and  feel  it  debasing,  so  must  we  at 
the  idealistic  end  admit  the  representation  of 
the  celestial  after  human  models,  and  feel  it, 
even  in  Milton  and  in  Dante,  minimizing.  The 
mysticism  of  the  borderland  at  its  supreme  is 
a  hope ;  at  its  nadir,  it  is  a  fear.  We  do  not 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  185 

know.  But  within  the  narrow  range  of  the 
intelligible  and  ordered  world  of  art,  which 
has  been  achieved  by  the  creative  reason  of 
civilized  man  in  his  brief  centuries  and  along 
the  narrow  path  from  Jerusalem  and  Athens 
to  the  western  world,  we  do  know  that  for 
the  normal  man  born  into  its  circle  of  light 
the  order  of  life  is  within  our  reach,  the  order 
of  death  within  reach  of  us.  Shut  within 
these  limits  of  the  victory  of  our  intellect  and 
the  upreaching  of  our  desires  and  the  warfare 
of  our  will,  we  assert  in  art  our  faith  that  the 
divine  order  is  victorious,  that  the  righteous 
man  is  not  forsaken,  that  the  soul  cannot  suffer 
wrong  either  from  others  or  from  nature  or 
from  God,  —  that  the  evil  principle  cannot  pre- 
vail. It  is  faith,  springing  from  our  experience 
of  the  working  of  that  order  in  us ;  it  transcends 
knowledge,  but  it  grows  with  knowledge  ;  and 
ideal  literature  asserts  this  faith  against  nature 
and  against  man  in  all  their  deformity,  as  the 
centre  about  which  life  revolves  so  far  as  it 
has  become  subject  to  rational  knowledge,  to 
beautiful  embodiment,  to  joyful  being,  to  the 
will  to  live. 

Can  the  faith  of  which  idealism  is  the  holder 


186  HEAKT  OF   MAN 

of  the  keys,  the  faith  as  nigh  to  the  intellect 
as  to  the  heart,  to  the  senses  as  to  the  spirit, 
exceed  even  this  limit,  and  affirm  that  if  man 
were  perfect  in  knowledge  and  saw  the  universe 
as  we  believe  God  sees  it,  he  would  behold  it 
as  an  artistic  whole  even  now?  Would  it  be 
that  beatific  vision,  revolving  like  God's  kalei- 
doscope, momentarily  falling  at  each  new  ar- 
rangement into  the  perfect  unities  of  art?  and 
is  our  world  of  art,  our  brief  model  of  such  a 
world  in  single  examples  of  its  scheme,  only 
a  way  of  limiting  the  field  to  the  compass  of 
human  faculties  that  we  may  see  within  our 
capacities  as  God  sees,  and  hence  have  such 
faith?  Is  art  after  all  a  lower  creation  than 
nature,  a  concession  to  our  frail  powers?  Has 
idealism  such  optimistic  reach  as  that?  Or 
must  we  see  the  evil  principle  encamped  here, 
confusing  truth,  deforming  beauty,  depraving 
joy,  deflecting  the  will,  with  wages  of  death 
for  its  victims,  and  the  hell  of  final  destruction 
spreading  beneath  its  sway?  so  that  the  world 
as  it  now  is  cannot  be  thought  of  as  the  will  of 
God  exercised  in  Omnipotence,  but  a  human 
opportunity  of  union  with  or  separation  from  the 
ideal  order  in  conflict  with  the  order  of  death. 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      187 

I  recall  Newman's  picture :  "  To  consider  the 
world  in  its  length  and  breadth,  its  various  his- 
tory, the  many  races  of  men,  their  starts,  their 
fortunes,  their  mutual  alienation,  their  conflicts, 
and  then  their  ways,  habits,  governments,  forms 
of  worship  ;  their  enterprises,  their  aimless 
courses,  their  random  achievements  and  ac- 
quirements, the  impotent  conclusion  of  long- 
standing facts,  the  tokens  so  faint  and  broken 
of  a  superintending  design,  the  blind  evolution 
of  what  turn  out  to  be  great  powers  or  truths, 
the  progress  of  things,  as  if  from  unreasoning 
elements,  not  toward  final  causes,  the  great- 
ness and  littleness  of  man,  his  far-reaching 
aims,  his  short  duration,  the  curtain  hung  over 
his  futurity,  the  disappointments  of  life,  the 
defeat  of  good,  the  success  of  evil,  physical 
pain,  mental  anguish,  the  prevalence  and  in- 
tensity of  sin,  the  pervading  idolatries,  the  cor- 
ruptions, the  dreary  hopeless  irreligion,  that 
condition  of  the  whole  race,  so  fearfully  yet 
exactly  described  in  the  Apostle's  words,  '  hav- 
ing no  hope  and  without  God  in  the  world,'  - 
all  this  is  a  vision  to  dizzy  and  appall ;  and  in- 
flicts upon  the  mind  the  sense  of  a  profound 
mystery  which  is  absolutely  beyond  human 


188  HEART  OF  MAN 

solution."  In  the  face  of  such  a  world,  even 
when  partially  made  intelligible  in  ideal  art, 
dare  we  assert  that  fatalistic  optimism  which 
would  have  it  that  the  universe  is  in  God's  eyes 
a  perfect  world  ?  I  can  find  no  warrant  for  it  in 
ideal  art,  though  thence  the  ineradicable  effort 
arises  in  us  to  win  to  that  world  in  the  convic- 
tion that  it  is  not  indifferent  in  the  sight  of 
heaven  whether  we  live  in  the  order  of  life  or 
that  of  death,  in  the  faith  that  victory  in  us  is  a 
triumph  of  that  order  itself  which  increases  and 
prevails  in  us,  is  a  bringing  of  Christ's  kingdom 
upon  earth.  Art  rather  becomes  in  our  mind 
a  function  of  the  world's  progress,  and  were  its 
goal  achieved  would  cease ;  for  life  would  then 
itself  be  one  with  art,  one  with  the  divine  order. 
So  much  of  truth  there  is  in  Ruskin's  statement 
that  art  made  perfect  denies  progress  and  is  its 
ultimate.  But  perfection  in  life,  as  ideal  art 
presents  it,  is  a  prophecy  which  enlists  us  as 
soldiers  militant  in  its  fulfilment.  Its  optimism 
is  that  of  the  issue,  and  may  be  that  of  the  pro- 
cess ;  but  it  surely  is  not  that  of  the  state  that 
now  is  in  the  world. 

It  thus  appears  more  and  more  that  art  is 
educative;   it  is   the  race's  foreknowledge   of 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  189 

what  may  be,  of  the  objects  of  effort  and  the 
methods  of  their  attainment  under  mortal  con- 
ditions. The  difficulty  of  men  in  respect  to 
it  is  the  lax  power  they  have  to  see  in  it  the 
truth,  as  contradistinguished  from  the  fact,  the 
continuous  reality  of  the  things  of  the  mind  in 
opposition  to  the  accidental  and  partial  reality 
of  the  things  of  actuality.  They  think  of  it  as 
an  imagined  instead  of  as  the  real  world,  the 
model  of  that  which  is  in  the  evolution  of  that 
which  ought  to  be.  In  history  the  climaxes  of 
art  have  always  outrun  human  realization;  its 
crests  in  Greece,  Italy,  and  England  are  crests 
of  the  never-attained ;  but  they  still  make  on  in 
their  mass  to  the  yet  rising  wave,  which  shall 
be  of  mankind  universal,  if,  indeed,  in  the  cos- 
mopolitan civilization  which  we  hope  for,  the 
elements  of  the  past,  yet  surviving  from  the 
accomplishment  of  single  famous  cities  and 
great  empires,  shall  be  blended  in  a  world-ideal, 
expressing  the  spiritual  uplifting  to  God  of  the 
reconciled  and  unified  nations  of  the  earth. 

There  remains  but  one  last  resort ;  for  it  will 
yet  be  urged  that  the  impossibility  of  any  scien- 
tific knowledge  of  the  spiritual  order  is  proved 
by  the  transience  of  the  ideals  of  the  past ;  one 


190  HEART  OF   MAN 

is  displaced  by  another,  there  is  no  permanence 
in  them.  It  is  true  that  the  concrete  world, 
which  must  be  employed  by  art,  is  one  of  sense, 
and  necessarily  imports  into  the  form  of  art  its 
own  mortality ;  it  is,  even  in  art,  a  thing  that 
passes  away.  It  is  also  true  that  the  world  of 
knowledge,  which  is  the  subject-matter  of  art, 
is  in  process  of  being  known,  and  necessarily 
imports  into  the  contents  of  art  its  errors,  its 
hypotheses,  its  imperfections  of  every  kind ;  it  is 
a  thing  that  grows  more  and  more,  and  in  grow- 
ing sheds  its  outworn  shells,  its  past  body.  Let 
us  consider  the  form  and  the  contents  separately. 
The  element  of  mortality  in  the  form  is  included 
in  the  transience  of  imagery.  The  poet  uses  the 
world  as  he  knows  it,  and  reflects  in  successive 
ages  of  literature  the  changing  phases  of  civili- 
zation. The  shepherd,  the  tiller  of  the  soil,  the 
warrior,  the  trader  yield  to  him  their  language 
of  the  earth,  the  battle,  and  the  sea ;  from  the 
common  altar  he  learns  the  speech  of  the  gods ; 
the  elemental  aspects  of  nature,  the  pursuits 
of  men,  and  what  is  believed  of  the  supernatural 
are  the  great  storehouses  of  imagery.  The  fact 
that  it  is  at  first  a  living  act  or  habit  that  the 
poet  deals  with,  gives  to  his  work  that  original 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY       191 

vivacity,  that  direct  sense  of  actuality,  of  con- 
temporaneousness, which  characterizes  early 
literatures,  as  in  Homer  or  the  Song  of  Roland : 
even  the  marvellous  has  in  them  the  reality  of 
being  believed.  This  imagery,  however,  grows 
remote  with  the  course  of  time;  it  becomes 
capable  of  holding  an  inward  meaning  without 
resistance  from  too  high  a  feeling  of  actuality; 
it  becomes  spiritualized.  The  process  is  the 
same  already  illustrated  in  lyric  form  as  an  ex- 
pression of  personality  ;  but  here  man  universal 
enters  into  the  image  and  possesses  it  imperson- 
ally on  the  broad  human  scale.  The  pastoral 
life,  for  example,  then  yields  the  forms  of  art 
which  hold  either  the  simple  innocence  of 
happy  earthly  love,  as  in  Daphnis  and  Chloe, 
or  the  natural  grief  of  elegy  made  beautiful,  as 
in  Bion's  dirge,  or  the  shepherding  of  Christ  in 
his  church  on  earth,  as  in  many  an  English 
poet ;  the  imagery  has  unclothed  itself  of  actu- 
ality and  shows  a  purely  spiritual  body. 

This  growing  inwardness  of  art  is  a  main 
feature  of  literary  history.  It  is  illustrated  on 
the  grand  scale  by  the  imagery  of  war.  In  the 
beginning  war  for  its  own  sake,  mere  fighting, 
is  the  subject;  then  war  for  a  cause,  which  en- 


192  HEART  OF  MAN 

nobles  it  beyond  the  power  of  personal  prowess 
and  justifies  it  as  an  element  in  national  life ; 
next,  war  for  love,  which  refines  it  and  builds 
the  paradox  of  the  deeds  of  hate  serving  the 
will  of  courtesy ;  last,  war  for  the  soul's  salva- 
tion, which  is  unseen  battle  within  the  breast. 
Achilles,  -ZEneas,  Lancelot,  the  Red  Cross 
Knight  are  the  terms  in  this  series ;  they  mark 
the  transformation  of  the  most  savage  act  of 
man  into  the  symbol  of  his  highest  spiritual 
effort.  Nature  herself  is  subject  to  this  inward- 
ness of  art ;  at  first  merely  objective  as  a  condi- 
tion, and  usually  a  hostile,  or  at  least  dangerous, 
condition  of  human  life,  she  becomes  the  wit- 
ness to  omnipotent  power  in  illimitable  beauty 
and  majesty,  its  infinite  unknowableness,  and 
its  tender  care  for  all  creatures,  as  in  the 
Scriptures;  and  at  last  the  words  of  our  Lord 
concentrate,  in  some  simple  flower,  the  pro- 
foundest  of  moral  truths,  —  that  the  beauty  of 
the  soul  is  the  gift  of  God,  out  of  whose  eternal 
law  it  blossoms  and  has  therein  its  ever  living 
roots,  its  air  and  light,  its  inherent  grace  and 
sweetness:  "Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field, 
how  they  grow :  they  toil  not,  neither  do  they 
spin :  and  yet  I  say  unto  you  that  even  Solomon 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  193 

in  all  his  glory  was  not  arrayed  like  one  of 
these.  Shall  he  not  much  more  clothe  you,  O 
ye  of  little  faith?"  Such  is  the  normal  devel- 
opment of  all  imagery ;  its  actuality  limits  it, 
and  in  becoming  remote  it  grows  flexible.  It  is 
only  by  virtue  of  this  that  man  can  retain  the 
vast  treasures  of  race-imagination,  and  continue 
to  use  them,  such  as  the  worlds  of  mythology, 
of  chivalry,  and  romance.  The  imagery  is,  in 
truth,  a  background,  whose  foreground  is  the 
ideal  meaning.  Thus  even  fairyland,  and  the 
worlds  of  heaven  and  hell,  have  their  place  in 
art.  The  actuality  of  the  imagery  is  in  fact 
irrelevant,  just  as  history  is  in  the  idealization 
of  human  events.  Its  transience,  then,  cannot 
matter,  except  in  so  far  as  it  loses  intelligibility 
through  changes  of  time,  place,  and  custom, 
and  becomes  a  dead  language.  It  follows  that 
that  imagery  which  keeps  close  to  universal 
phases  of  nature,  to  pursuits  always  necessary 
in  human  life,  and  to  ineradicable  beliefs  in 
respect  to  the  supernatural,  is  most  permanent 
as  a  language  ;  and  here  art  in  its  most  im- 
mortal creations  returns  again  to  its  omni- 
present character  as  a  thing  of  the  common 
lot. 


194  HEART  OF   MAN 

The  transience  of  the  contents  of  art  may  be 
of  two  kinds.  There  is  a  passing  away  of  error, 
as  there  is  in  all  knowledge,  but  such  a  loss 
need  not  detain  attention.  What  is  really  in 
issue  is  the  passing  away  of  the  authority  of 
precept  and  example  fitted  to  one  age  but  not 
to  another,  as  in  the  case  of  the  substitution  of 
the  ideal  of  humility  for  that  of  valour,  owing 
to  a  changed  emphasis  in  the  scale  of  virtues. 
The  contents  of  art,  its  general  ideals,  repro- 
duce the  successive  periods  of  our  earth-history 
as  a  race,  by  generalizing  each  in  its  own  age. 
A  parallel  exists  in  the  subject-matter  of  the 
sciences;  astronomy,  geology,  paleontology  are 
similar  statements  of  past  phases  of  the  evolu- 
tion of  the  earth,  its  aspects  in  successive 
stages.  Or,  to  take  a  kindred  example,  just  as 
the  planets  in  their  order  set  forth  now  the 
history  of  our  system  from  nascent  life  to  .com- 
plete death  as  earths,  so  these  ideals  exhibit 
man's  stages  from  savagery  to  such  culture  as 
has  been  attained.  They  have  more  than  a  de- 
scriptive and  historical  significance  ;  they  retain 
practical  vitality  because  the  unchangeable  ele- 
ment in  the  universe  and  in  man's  nature  is  in 
the  main  their  subject-matter.  It  is  not  merely 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      195 

that  the  child  repeats  in  his  education,  in  some 
measure  at  least,  the  history  of  the  race,  and 
hence  must  still  learn  the  value  of  bravery  and 
humility  in  their  order ;  nor  that  in  the  mass  of 
men  many  remain  ethically  and  emotionally  in 
the  characteristic  stages  of  past  culture ;  but 
these  various  ideals  of  what  is  admirable  have 
themselves  identical  elements,  and  in  those 
points  in  which  they  differ  respond  to  native 
varieties  of  human  capacity  and  temperament. 
The  living  principles  of  Hebrew,  Greek,  Roman, 
and  Christian  thought  and  feeling  are  at  work 
in  the  world,  still  formative ;  it  is  only  by  such 
vitality  that  their  results  in  art  truly  survive. 
There  has  been  an  expansion  of  the  field,  and 
some  rearrangement  within  it;  but  the  evolu- 
tion of  human  ideals  has  been,  in  our  civiliza- 
tion, the  growth  of  one  spirit  out  of  its  dead 
selves  carrying  on  into  each  reincarnation  the 
true  life  that  was  in  the  form  it  leaves,  and 
which  is  immortal.  The  substance  in  each 
ideal,  its  embodiment  of  what  is  cardinal  in 
all  humanity,  remains  integral.  The  alloy  of 
mortality  in  a  work  of  art  lies  in  so  much  of 
it  as  was  limited  in  truth  to  time,  place,  coun- 
try, race,  religion,  its  specific  and  contemporary 


196  HEART  OF   MAN 

part;  so  great  is  this  in  detail  that  a  strong 
power  of  historical  imagination,  the  power  to 
rebuild  past  conditions,  is  a  main  necessity  of 
culture,  like  the  study  of  a  dead  language ; 
an  interpretative  faculty,  the  power  to  trans- 
late into  terms  of  our  knowledge  what  was 
stated  in  terms  of  different  beliefs,  must  go 
with  this ;  and  also  a  corrective  power,  if  the 
work  is  to  be  truly  useful  and  enter  into  our 
lives  with  effect.  Such  an  alloy  there  is  in 
nearly  all  great  works  even ;  much  in  Homer, 
something  in  Virgil,  a  considerable  part  of 
Dante,  and  an  increasing  portion  in  Milton 
have  this  mixture  of  death  in  them ;  but  if  by 
keeping  to  the  primary,  the  permanent,  the 
universal,  they  have  escaped  the  natural  body 
of  their  age,  the  substance  of  the  work  is  still 
living;  they  have  achieved  such  immortality 
as  art  allows.  They  have  done  so,  not  so  much 
by  the  personal  power  of  their  authors  as  by 
their  representative  character.  These  ideal 
works  of  the  highest  range,  which  embody  in 
themselves  whole  generations  of  effort  and  rise 
as  the  successive  incarnations  of  human  imagi- 
nation, are  products  of  race  and  state,  of  world- 
experience  and  social  personality ;  they  differ, 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  197 

race  from  race,  civilization  from  civilization, 
Hebrew  or  Greek,  Pagan  or  Christian,  just  as 
on  the  individual  scale  persons  differ ;  and  they 
are  solved,  as  personality  in  its  individual  form 
is  solved,  in  the  element  of  the  common  reason, 
the  common  nature  in  the  world  and  man, 
which  they  contain,  —  in  man, 

"  Equal,  unclassed,  tribeless,  and  nationless  " ; 

in  the  unity  of  the  truth  of  his  spirit  they  are 
freed  from  mortality,  they  are  mutually  intel- 
ligible and  interchangeable,  they  survive, — 
racial  and  secular  states  and  documents  of  a 
spiritual  evolution  yet  going  on  in  all  its  stages 
in  the  human  mass,  still  barbarous,  still  pagan, 
still  Christian,  but  an  evolution  which  at  its 
highest  point  wastes  nothing  of  the  past,  holds 
all  its  truth,  its  beauty,  its  vital  energy,  in  a 
forward  reach. 

The  nature  of  the  changes  which  time  brings 
may  best  be  illustrated  from  the  epic,  and  thus 
the  opposition  of  the  transient  and  permanent 
elements  in  art  be,  perhaps,  more  clearly 
shown.  Epic  action  has  been  defined  as  the 
working  out  of  the  Divine  will  in  society; 
hence  it  requires  a  crisis  of  humanity  as  its 


198  HEART  OF  MAN 

subject,  it  involves  the  conflict  of  a  higher 
with  a  lower  civilization,  and  it  is  conducted 
by  means  of  a  double  plot,  one  in  heaven,  the 
other  on  earth.  These  are  the  characteris- 
tic epic  traits.  In  dealing  with  ideas  of  such 
importance,  the  poets  in  successive  eras  of  civili- 
zation naturally  found  much  adaptation  to  new 
conditions  necessary,  and  met  with  ever  fresh 
difficulties;  the  result  is  a  many-sided  epic 
development.  The  idea  of  the  Divine  will,  the 
theory  of  its  operation,  and  the  conception  of 
society  itself  were  all  subject  to  change.  Epics 
at  first  are  historical ;  but,  sharing  with  the 
tendency  of  all  art  toward  inwardness  of  mean- 
ing, they  become  purely  spiritual.  The  one 
thing  that  remains  common  to  all  is  the  notion 
of  a  struggle  between  a  higher  and  a  lower, 
overruled  by  Providence.  They  have  two  sub- 
jects of  interest,  one  the  cause,  the  other  the 
hero  through  whom  the  cause  works;  and 
between  these  two  interests  the  epic  hovers,  sel- 
dom if  ever  identifying  them  and  yet  preserv- 
ing their  dual  reality. 

The  Iliad  has  all  the  traits  that  have  been 
mentioned,  but  society  is  still  loose  enough  in 
its  bonds  to  give  the  characters  free  play ;  it  is, 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      199 

in  the  main,  a  hero-epic.  The  ^Eneid,  on  the 
contrary,  exhibits  the  enormous  development 
of  the  social  idea;  its  subject  is  Roman  do- 
minion, which  is  the  will  of  Zeus,  localized  in 
the  struggle  with  Carthage  and  with  Turnus, 
but  felt  in  the  poem  pervasively  as  the  general 
destiny  of  Rome  in  its  victory  over  the  world ; 
and  this  interest  is  so  overpowering  as  to  make 
JEneas  the  slave  of  Jove  and  almost  to  extin- 
guish the  other  characters ;  it  is  a  state-epic. 
So  long  as  the  Divine  will  was  conceived  as 
finding  its  operation  through  deities  similar  to 
man,  the  double  plot  presented  little  difficulty ; 
but  in  the  coming  of  Christian  thought,  even 
with  its  hierarchies  of  angels  and  legions  of 
devils,  the  interpretation  became  arduous.  In 
the  Jerusalem  Delivered  the  social  conflict 
between  Crusader  and  infidel  is  clear,  the 
historical  crisis  in  the  wars  of  Palestine  is 
rightly  chosen,  but  the  machinery  of  the  heav- 
enly plot  is  weakened  by  the  presence  of  magic, 
and  is  by  itself  ineffectual  in  inspiring  a  true 
belief.  So  in  the  Lusiads,  while  the  conflict 
and  the  crisis,  as  shown  in  the  national  energy 
of  colonization  in  the  East,  are  clear,  the 
machinery  of  the  heavenly  plot  frankly  reverts 


200  HEART  OF  MAN 

to   mythologic  and  pagan  forms  and  loses  all 
credibility. 

In  the  Paradise  Lost  arises  the  spiritual  epic, 
but  still  historically  conceived;  the  crisis  chosen, 
which  is  the  fall  of  man  in  Adam,  is  the  most 
important  conceivable  by  man ;  the  powers  en- 
gaged are  the  superior  beings  of  heaven  and  hell 
in  direct  antagonism ;  but  here,  too,  the  machin- 
ery of  the  heavenly  plot  is  handled  with  much 
strain,  and,  however  strongly  supported  by  the 
Scriptures,  has  little  convincing  power.  The 
truth  is  that  the  Divine  will  was  coming  to  be 
conceived  as  implicit  in  society,  being  Provi- 
dence there,  and  operating  in  secret  but  normal 
ways  in  the  guidance  of  events,  not  by  special 
and  interfering  acts ;  and  also  as  equally  impli- 
cit in  the  individual  soul,  the  influence  of  the 
Spirit,  and  working  in  the  ways  of  spiritual  law. 
One  change,  too,  of  vast  importance  was  an- 
nounced by  the  words  "  The  Kingdom  of  Heaven 
is  within  you."  This  transferred  the  very  scene 
of  conflict,  the  theatre  of  spiritual  warfare,  from 
an  external  to  an  internal  world,  and  the  social 
significance  of  such  individual  battle  lay  in  its 
being  typical  of  all  men's  lives.  The  Faerie 
Queeiie,  the  most  spiritual  poem  in  all  ways  in 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETKY      201 

English,  is  an  epic  in  essence,  though  its  action 
is  developed  by  a  revolution  of  the  phases  of 
the  soul  in  succession  to  the  eye,  and  not  by  the 
progress  of  one  main  course  of  events.  The 
conflict  of  the  higher  and  the  lower  under 
Divine  guidance  in  the  implicit  sense  is  there 
shown ;  the  significance  is  for  mankind,  though 
not  for  a  society  in  its  worldly  fortunes;  but 
there  is  little  attempt  to  externalize  the  heav- 
enly power  in  specific  action  in  superhuman 
forms,  though  in  mortal  ways  the  good  knights, 
and  especially  Arthur,  shadow  it  forth.  The 
celestial  plot  is  humanized,  and  the  poem  be- 
comes a  hero-epic  in  almost  an  exclusive  way ; 
though  the  knight's  achievement  is  also  an 
achievement  of  God's  will,  the  interest  lies  in 
the  Divine  power  conceived  as  man's  moral 
victory.  In  the  Idyls  of  the  King  there  are 
several  traits  of  the  epic.  There  is  the  central 
idea  of  the  conflict  between  the  higher  and 
lower,  both  on  the  social  and  the  individual 
side ;  the  victory  of  the  Round  Table  would 
have  meant  not  only  pure  knights  but  a  regen- 
erate state.  Here,  however,  the  externalization 
of  the  Divine  will  in  the  Holy  Grail,  and,  as 
in  the  Christian  epic  generally,  its  confusion  oil 


202  HEART  OF  MAS 

the  marvellous  side  with  a  world  of  enchant- 
ment passing  here  into  the  sensuous  sphere  of 
Merlin,  are  felt  to  be  inadequate.  The  war  of 
"  soul  with  sense  "  was  the  subject-matter,  as 
was  Spenser's ;  the  method  of  revolution  of  its 
phases  was  also  Spenser's;  but  the  two  poems 
differ  in  the  point  that  Spenser's  knight  wins, 
but  Tennyson's  king  loses,  so  far  as  earth  is 
concerned ;  nor  can  it  be  fairly  pleaded  that  as 
in  Milton  Adam  loses,  yet  the  final  triumph  of 
the  cause  is  known  and  felt  as  a  divine  issue  of 
the  action  though  outside  the  poem,  so  Arthur 
is  saved  to  the  ideal  by  virtue  of  the  faith  he 
announces  in  the  New  Order  coming  on,  for  it 
is  not  so  felt.  The  touch  of  pessimism  invades 
the  poem  in  many  details,  but  here  at  its  heart ; 
for  Arthur  alone  of  all  the  heroes  of  epic  in  his 
own  defeat  drags  down  his  cause.  He  is  the  hero 
of  a  lost  cause,  whose  lance  will  never  be  raised 
again  in  mortal  conflict  to  bring  the  kingdom 
of  Christ  on  earth,  nor  its  victory  be  declared 
except  as  the  echo  of  a  hope  of  some  miraculous 
and  merciful  retrieval  from  beyond  the  barriers 
of  the  world  to  come.  But  in  showing  the 
different  conditions  of  the  modern  epic,  its 
spirituality,  its  difficulties  of  interpreting  in 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      203 

sensuous  imagery  the  working  of  the  Divine 
will,  its  relaxed  hold  on  the  social  movement 
for  which  it  substitutes  man's  universal  nature, 
and  the  mist  that  settles  round  it  in  its  latest 
example,  sufficient  illustration  has  been  given 
of  the  changes  of  time  to  which  idealism  is  sub- 
ject, and  also  of  the  essential  truth  surviving  in 
the  works  of  the  past,  which  in  the  epics  is  the 
vision  of  how  the  ends  of  God  have  been  accom- 
plished in  the  world  and  in  the  soul  by  the 
union  of  divine  grace  with  heroic  will,  —  the 
interpretation  and  glorification  of  history  and 
of  man's  single  conflict  in  himself  age  after  age, 
asserting  through  all  their  range  the  supremacy 
of  the  ideal  order  over  its  foes  in  the  entire 
race-life  of  man. 

Out  of  these  changes  of  time,  in  response  to 
the  varying  moods  of  men  in  respect  to  the 
world  they  inhabit,  arise  those  phases  of  art 
which  are  described  as  classical  and  roman- 
tic, words  of  much  confusion.  It  has  been  at- 
tempted to  distinguish  the  latter  as  having  an 
element  of  remoteness,  of  surprise,  of  curiosity ; 
but  to  me,  at  least,  classical  art  has  the  same 
remoteness,  the  same  surprise,  and  answers  the 
same  curiosity  as  romantic  art.  If  I  were  to 


204  HEART  OF  MAN 

endeavour  to  oppose  them  I  should  say  that 
classical  art  is  clear,  it  is  perfectly  grasped  in 
form,  it  satisfies  the  intellect,  it  awakes  an  emo- 
tion absorbed  by  itself,  it  definitely  guides  the 
will;  romantic  art  is  touched  with  mystery,  it 
has  richness  and  intricacy  of  form  not  fully  com- 
prehended, it  suggests  more  than  it  satisfies,  it 
stirs  an  unconfined  and  wandering  emotion,  it 
invigorates  an  adventurous  will;  classicism  is 
whole  in  itself  and  lives  in  the  central  region, 
the  white  light,  of  that  star  of  ideality  which  is 
the  light  of  our  knowledge ;  romanticism  bor- 
ders on  something  else,  —  the  rosy  corona  round 
about  our  star,  carrying  on  its  dawning  power 
into  those  unknown  infinities  which  embosom 
the  spark  of  life.  The  two  have  always  existed 
in  conjunction,  the  romantic  element  in  ancient 
literature  being  large.  But  owing  to  the  dis- 
closure of  the  world  to  us  in  later  times,  to  the 
deeper  sense  of  its  mysteries  which  are  our 
bounding  horizons  round  about,  and  especially 
to  the  impulse  given  to  emotion  by  the  opening 
of  the  doors  of  immortality  by  Christianity  to 
,thought,  revery,  and  dream,  to  hope  and  effort, 
the  romantic  element  has  been  more  marked  in 
modern  art,  has  in  fact  characterized  it,  being 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY  206 

fed  moreover  by  the  ever  increasing  inwardness 
of  human  life,  the  greater  value  and  opportunity 
of  personality  in  a  free  and  high  civilization,  and 
by  the  uncertainty,  confusion,  and  complexity  of 
such  masses  of  human  experience  as  our  obser- 
vation now  controls.  The  romantic  temper  is 
inevitable  in  men  whose  lives  are  themselves 
thought  of  as,  in  form,  but  fragments  of  the  life 
to  come,  which  shall  find  their  completion  an 
eternal  task.  It  is  the  natural  ally  of  faith  which 
it  alone  can  render  with  an  infinite  outlook ; 
and  it  is  the  complement  of  that  mystery  which 
is  required  to  supplement  it,  and  which  is  an 
abiding  presence  in  the  habit  of  the  sensitive 
and  serious  mind.  Yet  in  classical  art  the  defi- 
nite may  still  be  rendered,  the  known,  the  con- 
quered. Idealism  has  its  finished  world  therein  ; 
in  romanticism  it  has  rather  its  prophetic  work. 
Such,  then,  as  best  I  can  state  it  in  brief  and 
rapid  strokes,  is  the  world  of  art,  its  methods, 
its  appeals,  its  significance  to  mankind.  Ideal- 

f*  °  ••••MHMHBA 

ism,  so  presented,  is  in  a  sense  a  glorification  of 
the  commonplace.  Its  realm  lies  in  the  com- 
mon lot  of  men;  its  distinction  is  to  embrace 
truth  for  all,  and  truth  in  its  universal  forms  of 
experience  and  personality,  the  primary,  element- 


203  HEART  OF  MAN 

ary,  equally  shared  fates,  passions,  beliefs  of  the 
race.  Shakspere,  our  great  example,  as  Cole- 
ridge wisely  said,  "  kept  in  the  highway  of  life." 
That  is  the  royal  road  of  genius,  the  path  of 
immortality,  the  way  ever  trodden  by  the  great 
who  lead.  I  have  ventured  to  speak  at  times  of 
religious  truth.  What  is  the  secret  of  Christ's 
undying  power?  Is  it  not  that  he  stated  uni- 
versal truth  in  concrete  forms  of  common  expe- 
rience so  that  it  comes  home  to  all  men's  bosoms  ? 
Genius  is  supreme  in  proportion  as  it  does  that, 
and  becomes  the  interpreter  of  every  man  who 
is  born  into  the  world,  makes  him  know  his 
brotherhood  with  all,  and  the  incorporation  of 
his  fate  in  the  scheme  of  law,  and  ideal  achieve- 
ment under  it,  which  is  the  common  ground  of 
humanity.  Ideal  literature  is  the  treasury  of 
such  genius  in  the  past ;  here,  as  I  said  in  the 
beginning,  the  wisdom  of  the  soul  is  stored ; 
and  art,  in  all  its  forms,  is  immortal  only  in  so 
far  as  it  has  done  its  share  in  this  same  labour  of 
illumination,  persuasion,  and  command,  forecast- 
ing the  spirit  to  be,  companioning  the  spirit  that 
is,  sustaining  us  all  in  the  effort  to  make  ideal 
order  actual  in  ourselves. 

What,  then,  since  I  said  that  it  is  a  question 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      207 

how  to  live  as  well  as  how  to  express  life, — 
what,  then,  is  the  ideal  life?  It  is  to  make 
one's  life  a  poem,  as  Milton  dreamed  of  the 
true  poet ;  for  as  art  works  through  matter  and 
takes  on  concrete  and  sensible  shape  with  its 
mortal  conditions,  so  the  soul  dips  in  life,  is  in 
material  action,  and,  suffering  a  similar  fate, 
sinks  into  limitations  and  externals  of  this 
world  and  this  flesh,  through  which  it  must 
live.  In  such  a  life,  mortal  in  all  ways,  to 
bring  down  to  earth  the  vision  that  floats  in  the 
soul's  eyes,  the  ideal  order  as  it  is  revealed  to 
the  poet's  gaze,  incorporating  it  in  deed  and 
being,  and  to  make  it  prevail,  so  far  as  our  lives 
have  power,  in  the  world  of  our  life,  is  the  task 
set  for  us.  To  disengage  reason  from  the  con- 
fusion of  things,  and  behold  the  eternal  forms 
of  the  mind;  to  unveil  beauty  in  the  transi- 
tory sights  of  our  eyes,  and  behold  the  eternal 
forms  of  sense;  so  to  act  that  the  will  within 
us  shall  take  on  this  form  of  reason  and  our 
manifest  life  wear  this  form  of  beauty;  and, 
more  closely,  to  live  in  the  primary  affections, 
the  noble  passions,  the  sweet  emotions,  — 

"  Founded  in  reason,  loyal,  just,  and  pure, 
Relations  dear,  and  all  the  charities 
Of  father,  son,  and  brother,  —  " 


208  HEART  OF  MAN 

and  also  in  the  general  sorrows  of  mankind, 
thereby,  in  joy  and  grief,  entering  sympatheti- 
cally into  the  hearts  of  common  men;  to  keep 
in  the  highway  of  life,  not  turning  aside  to  the 
eccentric,  the  sensational,  the  abnormal,  the 
brutal,  the  base,  but  seeing  them,  if  they  must 
come  within  our  vision,  in  their  place  only  by 
the  edges  of  true  life ;  and,  if,  being  men,  we 
are  caught  in  the  tragic  coil,  to  seek  the  resto- 
ration of  broken  order,  learning  also  in  such 
bitterness  better  to  understand  the  dark  conflict 
forever  waging  in  the  general  heart,  the  terror 
of  the  heavy  clouds  hanging  on  the  slopes  of 
our  battle,  the  pathos  that  looks  down  even 
from  blue  skies  that  have  kept  watch  o'er 
man's  mortality,  —  so,  even  through  failure,  to 
draw  nearer  to  our  race ;  this,  as  I  conceive  it, 
is  to  lead  the  ideal  life.  It  is  a  message 
blended  of  many  voices  of  the  poets  whom 
Shelley  called,  whatever  might  be  their  calam- 
ity on  earth,  the  most  fortunate  of  men;  it 
rises  from  all  lands,  all  ages,  all  religions;  it 
is  the  battle-cry  of  that  one  great  idea  whose 
slow  and  hesitating  growth  is  the  unfolding  of 
our  long  civilization,  seeking  to  realize  in  de- 
mocracy the  earthly,  and  in  Christianity  the 


A  NEW  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      209 

heavenly,  hope  of  man,  —  the  idea  of  the  com- 
munity of  the  soul,  the  sameness  of  it  in  all 
men.  To  lead  this  life  is  to  be  one  with  man 
through  love,  one  with  the  universe  through 
knowledge,  one  with  God  through  the  will; 
that  is  its  goal,  toward  that  we  strive,  in  that 
we  believe. 

And  Thou,  O  Youth,  for  whom  these  lines  are 
written,  fear  not ;  idealize  your  friend,  for  it  is 
better  to  love  and  be  deceived  than  not  to  love 
at  all ;  idealize  your  masters,  and  take  Shelley 
and  Sidney  to  your  bosom,  so  shall  they  serve 
you  more  nobly  and  you  love  them  more  sweetly 
than  if  the  touch  and  sight  of  their  mortality 
had  been  yours  indeed ;  idealize  your  country, 
remembering  that  Brutus  in  the  dagger-stroke 
and  Cato  in  his  death-darkness  knew  not  the 
greater  Rome,  the  proclaimer  of  the  unity  of 
our  race,  the  codifier  of  justice,  the  establisher 
of  our  church,  and  died  not  knowing,  —  but  do 
you  believe  in  the  purpose  of  God,  so  shall  you 
best  serve  the  times  to  be;  and  in  your  own 
life,  fear  not  to  act  as  your  ideal  shall  com- 
mand, in  the  constant  presence  of  that  other 
self  who  goes  with  you,  as  I  have  said,  so  shall 


210  HEART  OF  MAN 

you  blend  with  him  at  the  end.  Fear  not 
either  to  believe  that  the  soul  is  as  eternal  as 
the  order  that  obtains  in  it,  wherefore  you  shall 
forever  pursue  that  divine  beauty  which  has 
here  so  touched  and  inflamed  you,  —  for  this  is 
the  faith  of  man,  your  race,  and  those  who  were 
fairest  in  its  records.  And  have  recourse 
always  to  the  fountains  of  this  life  in  litera- 
ture, which  are  the  wells  of  truth.  How  to  live 
is  the  one  matter;  the  wisest  man  in  his  ripe 
age  is  yet  to  seek  in  it ;  but  Thou,  begin  now 
and  seek  wisdom  in  the  beauty  of  virtue  and 
live  in  its  light,  rejoicing  in  it ;  so  in  this  world 
shall  you  live  in  the  foregleam  of  the  world  to 
come. 


DEMOCRACY 


DEMOCRACY 

DEMOCRACY  is  a  prophecy,  and  looks  to  the 
future ;  it  is  for  this  reason  that  it  has  its 
great  career.  Its  faith  is  the  substance  of 
things  hoped  for  and  the  evidence  of  things 
unseen,  whose  realization  will  be  the  labour  of 
a  long  age.  The  life  of  historic  nations  has 
been  a  pursuit  toward  a  goal  under  the  im- 
pulse of  ideas  often  obscurely  comprehended, 
—  world-ideas  as  we  call  them,  —  which  they 
have  embodied  in  accomplished  facts  and  in 
the  institutions  and  beliefs  of  mankind,  lasting 
through  ages ;  and  as  each  nation  has  slowly 
grown  aware  of  the  idea  which  animated  it, 
it  has  become  self-conscious  and  conscious  of 
greatness.  That  men  are  born  equal  is  still  a 
doctrine  openly  derided ;  that  they,  are  born 
free  is  not  accepted  without  much  nullifying 
limitation ;  that  they  are  born  in  brotherhood 
is  less  readily  denied.  These  three,  the  revo- 
lutionary words,  liberty,  equality,  fraternity,  are 
213 


214  HEART  OF 

the  substance  of  democracy,  if  the  matter  be  well 
considered,  and  all  else  is  bat  consequence. 

It    might   seem     gmgnlar    that    man    should 

ever  have  found  oat  this  creed,  as  that  physical 
life  could  invent  the  brain,  since  the  struggle 
for  existence  in  primitive  and  early  times  was 
so  adverse  to  it,  and  rested  on  a  selfish  and 
aggrandising  principle,  in  states  as  well  as 
between  races.  In  most  parts  of  the  world 
the  first  true  governments  were  tyrannies, 
patriarchal  or  despotic ;  and  where  liberty  was 
indigenous,  it  was  confined  to  the  race-blood. 
Aristotle  speaks  of  slavery  without  repugnance 
save  in  Greeks,  and  serfdom  was  incorporated 
in  the  northern  tribes  as  soon  as  they  began 
to  be  socially  organized.  Some  have  alleged 
that  religious  equality  was  an  Oriental  idea, 
and  borrowed  from  the  relation  of  subjects  to 
an  Asiatic  despot,  which  paved  the  way  for 
it;  some  attribute  civil  equality  to  the  Roman 
law;  some  find  the  germ  of  both  in  Stoical 
morals.  But  so  great  an  idea  as  the  equality 
of  man  reaches  down  into  the  past  by  a  thou- 
sand roots.  The  state  of  nature  of  the  savage 
in  the  woods,  which  our  fathers  once  thought 
a  pattern,  bore  some  outward  resemblance  to 


DEMOCRACY  215 

a  freeman's  life;  but  such  a  condition  is 
rather  one  of  private  independence  than  of 
the  grounded  social  right  that  democracy  con- 
templates. How  the  ideas  involved  came  into 
historical  existence  is  a  minor  matter.  Democ- 
racy has  its  great  career,  for  the  first  tame, 
in  our  national  being,  and  exhibits  here  most 
purely  its  formative  powers,  and  unfolds  des- 
tiny on  the  grand  scale.  Nothing  is  more  in- 
cumbent on  us  than  to  study  it,  to  turn  it 
this  way  and  that,  to  handle  it  as  often  and 
in  as  many  phases  as  possible  with  lively  curi- 
osity, and  not  to  betray  ourselves  by  an  easy 
assumption  that  so  elementary  a  thing  is  com- 
prehended because  it  seems  simple.  Funda- 
mental ideas  are  precisely  those  with  which 
we  should  be  most  familiar. 

Democracy  is  not  merely  a  political  experi- 
ment ;  and  its  governmental  theory,  though  so 
characteristic  of  it  as  not  to  be  dissociated 
from  it,  is  a  result  of  underlying  principles. 
There  is  always  an  ideality  of  the  human  spirit 
in  all  its  works,  if  one  will  search  them,  which 
is  the  main  thing.  The  State,  as  a  social 
aggregate  with  a  joint  life  which  constitutes 
it  a  nation,  is  dynamically  an  embodiment  of 


216  HEART  OF  MAN 

human  conviction,  desire,  and  tendency,  with  a 
common  basis  of  wisdom  and  energy  of  action, 
seeking  to  realize  life  in  accordance  with  its 
ideal,  whether  traditional  or  novel,  of  what 
life  should  be ;  and  government  is  no  more 
than  the  mode  of  administration  under  which 
it  achieves  its  results  both  in  national  life  and 
in  the  lives  of  its  citizens.  All  society  is  a 
means  of  escape  from  personality,  and  its  limi- 
tations of  power  and  wisdom,  into  this  larger 
communal  life ;  the  individual,  in  so  far,  loses 
his  particularity,  and  at  the  same  time  inten- 
sifies and  strengthens  that  portion  of  his  life 
which  is  thus  made  one  with  the  general  life 
of  men,  —  that  universal  and  typical  life  which 
they  have  in  common  and  which  moulds  them 
with  similar  characteristics.  It  is  by  this  fusion 
of  the  individual  with  the  mass,  this  identifi- 
cation of  himself  with  mankind  in  a  joint  activ- 
ity, this  reenforcement  of  himself  by  what  is 
himself  in  others,  that  a  man  becomes  a  social 
being.  The  process  is  the  same,  whether  in 
clubs,  societies  of  all  kinds,  sects,  political  par- 
ties, or  the  all-embracing  body  of  the  State. 
It  is  by  making  himself  one  with  human  nature 
in  America,  its  faith,  its  methods,  and  the  con- 


DEMOCRACY  217 

trolling  purposes  in  our  life  among  nations,  and 
not  by  birth  merely,  that  a  man  becomes  an 
American. 

The  life  of  society,  however,  includes  various 
affairs,  and  man  deals  with  them  by  different 
means  ;  thus  property  is  a  mode  of  dealing 
with  things.  Democracy  is  a  mode  of  dealing 
with  souls.  Men  commonly  speak  as  if  the 
soul  were  something  they  expect  to  possess 
in  another  world  ;  men  are  souls,  and  this  is 
a  fundamental  conception  of  democracy.  This 
spiritual  element  is  the  substance  of  democracy, 
in  the  large  sense ;  and  the  special  governmental 
theory  which  it  has  developed  and  organized, 
and  in  which  its  ideas  are  partially  included, 
is,  like  other  such  systems,  a  mode  of  admin- 
istration under  which  it  seeks  to  realize  its 
ideal  of  what  life  ought  to  be,  with  most  speed 
and  certainty,  and  on  the  largest  scale.  What 
characterizes  that  ideal  is  that  it  takes  the  soul 
into  account  in  a  way  hitherto  unknown ;  not 
that  other  governments  have  not  had  regard 
to  the  soul,  but,  in  democracy,  it  is  spiritu- 
ality that  gives  the  law  and  rules  the  issue. 
Hence,  a  great  preparation  was  needed  before 
democracy  could  come  into  effective  control  of 


218  HEART  OF  MAN 

society.  Christianity  mainly  afforded  this,  in 
respect  to  the  ideas  of  equality  and  fraternity, 
which  were  clarified  and  illustrated  in  the 
life  of  the  Church  for  ages,  before  they  en- 
tered practically  into  politics  and  the  general 
secular  arrangements  of  state  organization  ;  the 
nations  of  progress,  of  which  freedom  is  a  con- 
dition, developed  more  definitely  the  idea  of 
liberty,  and  made  it  familiar  to  the  thoughts 
of  men.  Democracy  belongs  to  a  compara- 
tively late  age  of  the  world,  and  to  advanced 
nations,  because  such  ideas  could  come  into 
action  only  after  the  crude  material  necessi- 
ties of  human  progress  —  illustrated  in  the 
warfare  of  nations,  in  military  organizations  for 
the  extension  of  a  common  rule  and  culture 
among  mankind,  and  in  despotic  impositions 
of  order,  justice,  and  the  general  ideas  of  civ- 
ilization—  had  relaxed,  and  a  free  course,  by 
comparison  at  least,  was  opened  for  the  higher 
nature  of  man  in  both  private  and  public  action. 
A  conception  of  the  soul  and  its  destiny,  not 
previously  applicable  in  society,  underlies  de- 
mocracy ;  this  is  why  it  is  the  most  spiritual 
government  known  to  man,  and  therefore  the 
highest  reach  of  man's  evolution;  it  is,  in 


DEMOCRACY  219 

fact,  the  spiritual  element  in  society  expressing 
itself  now  in  politics  with  an  unsuspected  and 
incalculable  force. 

Democracy  is  contained  in  the  triple  state- 
ment that  men  are  born  free,  equal,  and  in 
brotherhood ;  and  in  this  formula  it  is  the 
middle  term  that  is  cardinal,  and  the  root  of  all. 
Yet  it  is  the  doctrine  of  the  equality  of  man,  by 
virtue  of  the  human  nature  with  which  he  is 
clothed  entire  at  birth,  that  is  most  attacked,  as 
an  obvious  absurdity,  and  provocative  more  of 
laughter  than  of  argument.  What,  then,  is 
this  equality  which  democracy  affirms  as  the 
true  state  of  all  men  among  themselves?  It  is 
our  common  human  nature,  that  identity  of  the 
soul  in  all  men,  which  was  first  inculcated  by 
the  preaching  of  Christ's  death  for  all  equally, 
whence  it  followed  that  every  human  soul  was 
of  equal  value  in  the  eyes  of  God,  its  Creator, 
and  had  the  same  title  to  the  rites  of  the 
Christian  Church,  and  the  same  blessedness  of 
an  infinite  immortality  in  the  world  to  come ; 
thence  we  derived  it  from  the  very  fountain  of 
<5ur  faith,  and  the  first  true  democracy  was  that 
which  levelled  king  and  peasant,  barbarian  and 
Roman,  in  the  communion  of  our  Lord,  Yet 


220  HEART   OF   MAN 

nature  laughs  at  us,  and  ordains  such  inequal- 
ities at  birth  itself  as  make  our  peremptory 
charter  of  the  value  of  men's  souls  seem  a  play 
of  fancy.  There  are  men  of  almost  divine 
intelligence,  men  of  almost  devilish  instincts, 
men  of  more  or  less  clouded  mind ;  and  they 
are  such  at  birth,  so  deeply  has  nature  stamped 
into  them  heredity,  circumstance,  and  the  physi- 
cal conditions  of  sanity,  morality  and  whole- 
someness,  in  the  body  which  is  her  work.  Such 
differences  do  exist,  and  conditions  vary  the 
world  over,  whence  nature,  which  accumulates 
inequalities  in  the  struggle  for  life,  "with  ravin 
shrieks  against  our  creed."  But  we  have  not 
now  to  learn  for  the  first  time  that  nature, 
though  not  the  enemy  of  the  human  spirit,  is 
indifferent  to  all  the  soul  has  erected  in  man's 
own  realm,  peculiar  to  humanity.  What  has 
nature  contributed  to  the  doctrine  of  freedom  or 
of  fraternity  ?  Man's  life  to  her  is  all  one,  tyrant 
or  slave,  friend  or  foe,  wise  or  foolish,  virtuous 
or  vicious,  holy  or  profane,  so  long  as  her  im- 
perative physical  conditions  of  life,  the  mortal 
thing,  are  conformed  to  ;  society  itself  is  not 
her  care,  nor  civilization,  nor  anything  that 
belongs  to  man  above  the  brute.  Her  word, 


DEMOCRACY  221 

consequently,  need  not  disturb  us  ;  she  is  not 
our  oracle.  It  rather  belongs  to  us  to  win 
further  victory  over  her,  if  it  may  be,  by  our 
intelligence,  and  control  her  vital,  as  we  are 
now  coming  to  control  her  material,  powers 
and  their  operation. 

This  equality  which  democracy  affirms  —  the 
identity  of  the  soul,  the  sameness  of  its  capaci- 
ties of  energy,  knowledge,  and  enjoyment  — 
draws  after  it  as  a  consequence  the  soul's  right 
to  opportunity  for  self-development  by  virtue 
of  which  it  may  possess  itself  of  what  shall  be 
its  own  fulness  of  life.  In  the  inscrutable 
mystery  of  this  world,  the  soul  at  birth  enters 
on  an  unequal  struggle,  made  such  both  by 
inherent  conditions  and  by  external  limitations, 
in  individuals,  classes,  and  races ;  but  the  de- 
termination of  democracy  is  that,  so  far  as  may 
be,  it  will  secure  equality  of  opportunity  to 
every  soul  born  within  its  dominion,  in  the 
expectation  that  much  in  human  conditions 
which  has  hitherto  fed  and  heightened  in- 
equality, in  both  heredity  and  circumstance, 
may  be  lessened  if  not  eradicated ;  and  life 
after  birth  is  subject  to  great  control.  This  is 
the  meaning  of  the  first  axiom  of  democracy, 


222  HEART  OF  MAN 

that  all  have  a  right  to  the  pursuit  of  happiness, 
and  its  early  cries — "an  open  career,"  and  "the 
tools  to  him  who  can  use  them."  In  this  effort 
society  seems  almost  as  recalcitrant  as  nature ; 
for  in  human  history  the  accumulation  of  the 
selfish  advantage  of  inequality  has  told  with  as 
much  effect  as  ever  it  did  in  the  original  struggle 
of  reptile  and  beast;  and  in  our  present  complex 
and  extended  civilization  a  slight  gain  over  the 
mass  entails  a  telling  mortgage  of  the  future 
to  him  who  makes  it  and  to  his  heirs,  while  effi- 
ciency is  of  such  high  value  in  such  a  society 
that  it  must  needs  be  favoured  to  the  utmost ; 
on  the  other  hand  a  complex  civilization  en- 
courages a  vast  variety  of  talent,  and  finds  a 
special  place  for  that  individuation  of  capacity 
which  goes  along  with  social  evolution.  The 
end,  too,  which  democracy  seeks  is  not  a  same- 
ness of  specific  results,  but  rather  an  equiva- 
lence ;  and  its  duty  is  satisfied  if  the  child  of 
its  rule  finds  such  development  as  was  possible 
to  him,  has  a  free  course,  and  cannot  charge 
his  deficiency  to  social  interference  and  the 
restriction  of  established  law. 

The  great  hold  that  the  doctrine  of  equality 
has  upon  the  masses  is  not  merely  because  it 


DEMOCRACY  223 

furnishes  the  justification  of  the  whole  scheme, 
which  is  a  logic  they  may  be  dimly  conscious 
of,  but  that  it  establishes  their  title  to  such 
good  in  human  life  as  they  can  obtain,  on 
the  broadest  scale  and  in  the  fullest  measure. 
What  other  claim,  so  rational  and  noble  in 
itself,  can  they  put  forth  in  the  face  of  what 
they  find  established  in  the  world  they  are  born 
into  ?  The  results  of  past  civilization  are  still 
monopolized  by  small  minorities  of  mankind, 
who  receive  by  inheritance,  under  natural  and 
civil  law,  the  greater  individual  share  of  mate- 
rial comfort,  of  large  intelligence,  of  fortunate 
careers.  It  does  not  matter  that  the  things 
which  belong  to  life  as  such,  the  greater  bless- 
ings essential  to  human  existence,  cannot  be 
monopolized  ;  all  that  man  can  take  and  appro- 
priate they  find  preoccupied  so  far  as  human 
discovery  and  energy  have  been  able  to  reach, 
understand,  and  utilize  it ;  and  what  proposi- 
tion can  they  assert  as  against  this  sequestering 
of  social  results  and  material  and  intellectual 
opportunity,  except  to  say,  "  we,  too,  are  men,"' 
and  with  the  word  to  claim  a  share  in  such  parts 
of  social  good  as  are  not  irretrievably  pledged 
to  men  better  born,  better  educated,  better 


224  HEART  OF  MAN 

supplied  with  the  means  of  subsistence  and 
the  accumulated  hoard  of  the  past,  which  has 
come  into  their  hands  by  an  award  of  fortune  ? 
It  is  not  a  fanciful  idea.  It  is  founded  in 
the  unity  of  human  nature,  which  is  as  certain 
as  any  philosophic  truth,  and  has  been  pro- 
claimed by  every  master-spirit  of  our  race  time 
out  of  mind.  It  is  supported  by  the  universal 
faith,  in  which  we  are  bred,  that  we  are  chil- 
dren of  a  common  Father,  and  saved  by  one 
Redeemer  and  destined  to  one  immortality,  and 
cannot  be  balked  of  the  fulness  of  life  which 
was  our  gift  under  divine  providence.  I  em- 
phasize the  religious  basis,  because  I  believe 
it  is  the  rock  of  the  foundation  in  respect  to 
this  principle,  which  cannot  be  successfully 
impeached  by  any  one  who  accepts  Christian 
truth  ;  while  in  the  lower  sphere,  on  worldly 
grounds  alone,  it  is  plain  that  the  immense 
advantage  of  the  doctrine  of  equality  to  the 
masses  of  men,  justifies  the  advancement  of  it 
as  an  assumption  which  they  call  on  the  issue 
in  time  to  approve. 

It  is  in  this  portion  of  the  field  that  democ- 
racy relies  most  upon  its  prophetic  power. 
Within  the  limits  of  nature  and  mortal  life 


DEMOCRACY  225 

the  hope  of  any  equal  development  of  the  soul 
seems  folly;  yet,  so  far  as  my  judgment  ex- 
tends, in  men  of  the  same  race  and  community 
it  appears  to  me  that  the  sameness  in  essen- 
tials is  so  great  as  to  leave  the  differences  ines- 
sential, so  far  as  power  to  take  hold  of  life  and 
possess  it  in  thought,  will,  or  feeling  is  in  ques- 
tion. I  do  not  see,  if  I  may  continue  to  speak 
personally,  that  in  the  great  affairs  of  life,  in 
duty,  love,  self-control,  the  willingness  to  serve, 
the  sense  of  joy,  the  power  to  endure,  there  is 
any  great  difference  among  those  of  the  same 
community ;  and  this  is  reasonable,  for  the  per- 
manent relations  of  life,  in  families,  in  social 
ties,  in  public  service,  and  in  all  that  the  belief 
in  heaven  and  the  attachments  to  home  bring 
into  men's  lives,  are  the  same  ;  and  though,  in 
the  choicer  parts  of  fortunate  lives,  assthetic 
and  intellectual  goods  may  be  more  important 
than  among  the  common  people,  these  are  less 
penetrating  and  go  not  to  the  core,  which  re- 
mains life  as  all  know  it  —  a  thing  of  affection, 
of  resolve,  of  service,  of  use  to  those  to  whom  it 
may  be  of  human  use.  Is  it  not  reasonable, 
then,  on  the  ground  of  what  makes  up  the  sub- 
stance of  life  within  our  observation,  to  accept 
Q 


226  HEART  OF  MAN 

this  principle  of  equality,  fortified  as  it  is  by 
any  conception  of  heaven's  justice  to  its  crea- 
tures? and  to  assume,  if  the  word  must  be  used, 
the  principle  primary  in  democracy,  that  all 
men  are  equally  endowed  with  destiny?  and 
thus  to  allow  its  prophetic  claim,  till  disproved, 
that  equal  opportunity,  linked  with  the  service 
of  the  higher  to  the  lower,  will  justify  its 
hope  ?  At  all  events,  in  this  lies  the  possibility 
of  greater  achievement  than  would  otherwise 
be  attained  within  our  national  limits  ;  and  what 
is  found  to  be  true  of  us  may  be  extended  to 
less  developed  communities  and  races  in  their 
degree. 

The  doctrine  of  the  equality  of  mankind  by 
virtue  of  their  birth  as  men,  with  its  consequent, 
right  to  equality  of  opportunity  for  self-devel- 
opment as  a  part  of  social  justice,  establishes  a 
common  basis  of  conviction,  in  respect  to  man, 
and  a  definite  end  as  one  main  object  of  the 
State  ;  and  these  elements  are  primary  in  the 
democratic  scheme.  Liberty  is  the  next  step, 
and  is  the  means  by  which  that  end  is  secured. 
It  is  so  cardinal  in  democracy  as  to  seem  hardly 
secondary  to  equality  in  importance.  Every 
State,  every  social  organization  whatever,  im- 


DEMOCRACY  227 

plies  a  principle  of  authority  commanding  obe- 
dience ;  it  may  be  of  the  absolute  type  of 
military  and  ecclesiastical  use,  or  limited,  as  in 
constitutional  monarchies  ;  but  some  obedience 
and  some  authority  are  necessary  in  order  that 
the  will  of  the  State  may  be  realized.  The 
problem  of  democracy  is  to  find  that  principle 
of  authority  which  is  most  consistent  with  the 
liberty  it  would  establish,  and  which  acts  with 
the  greatest  furtherance  and  the  least  interfer- 
ence in  the  accomplishment  of  the  chief  end  in 
view.  It  composes  authority,  therefore,  of  per- 
sonal liberty  itself,  and  derives  it  from  the  con- 
sent of  the  governed,  and  not  merely  from  their 
consent  but  from  their  active  decree.  The  social 
will  is  impersonal,  generic,  the  will  of  man,  not 
of  men ;  particular  wills  enter  into  it,  and  make 
it,  so  constituted,  themselves  in  a  larger  and 
external  form.  The  citizen  has  parted  with  no 
portion  of  his  freedom  of  will ;  the  will  of  the 
State  is  still  his  own  will,  projected  in  unison 
with  other  wills,  all  jointly  making  up  one  sum, 
—  the  authority  of  the  nation.  This  is  social 
self-government,  —  not  the  anarchy  of  individ- 
uals each  having  his  own  way  for  himself,  but 
government  through  a  delegated  self,  if  one 


228  HEART  OF  MAN 

may  use  the  phrase,  organically  combined  with 
others  in  the  single  power  of  control  belonging 
to  a  State.  This  fusion  is  accomplished  in  the 
secondary  stage,  for  the  continuous  action  of 
the  State,  by  representation,  technically ;  but, 
in  its  primary  stage  and  original  validity,  by 
universal  suffrage  ;  for  the  characteristic  trait 
of  democracy  is  that  in  constituting  this  au- 
thority, which  is  social  as  opposed  to  personal 
freedom,  —  personal  freedom  existing  in  its 
social  form,  —  it  includes  every  unit  of  will,  and 
gives  to  each  equivalence.  Democracy  thus 
establishes  the  will  of  society  in  its  most  uni- 
versal form,  lying  between  the  opposite  extremes 
of  particularism  in  despotism  and  anarchy ;  it 
owns  the  most  catholic  organ  of  authority,  and 
enters  into  it  with  the  entire  original  force  of 
the  community. 

This  universal  will  of  democracy  is  distin- 
guished from  the  more  limited  forms  of  states 
partially  embodying  democratic  principles  by 
the  fact  that  nothing  enters  into  it  except  man 
as  such.  The  rival  powers  which  seek  to  en- 
croach upon  this  scheme,  and  are  foreign  ele- 
ments in  a  pure  democracy,  are  education, 
property,  and  ancestry,  which  last  has  its  claim 


DEMOCRACY  229 

as  the  custodian  of  education  and  property  and 
the  advantages  flowing  from  their  long  posses- 
sion; the  trained  mind,  the  accumulated  capital, 
and  the  fixed  historic  tradition  of  the  nation  in 
its  most  intense  and  efficient  personal  form  are 
summed  up  in  these,  and  would  appropriate  to 
themselves  in  the  structure  of  government  a 
representation  not  based  on  individual  manhood 
but  on  other  grounds.  If  it  be  still  allowed 
that  all  men  should  have  a  share  in  a  self- 
government,  it  is  yet  maintained  that  a  share 
should  be  granted,  in  addition,  to  educated 
men  and  owners  of  property,  and  to  descend- 
ants of  such  men  who  have  founded  per- 
manent families  with  an  inherited  capacity, 
a  tradition,  and  a  material  stake.  Yet  these 
three  things,  education,  property,  and  an- 
cestry, are  in  the  front  rank  of  those  ine- 
qualities in  human  conditions  which  democracy 
would  minimize.  They  embody  past  custom 
and  present  results  which  are  a  deposit  of  the 
past;  they  plead  that  they  found  men  wards 
and  were  their  guardians,  and  that  under  their 
own  domination  progress  was  made,  and  all  that 
now  is  came  into  being ;  but  they  must  show 
farther  some  reason  in  present  conditions  under 


230  HEART  OF  MAN 

democracy  now  why  such  potent  inequalities 
and  breeders  of  inequality  should  be  clothed 
with  governing  power. 

Universal  suffrage  is  the  centre  of  the  dis- 
cussion, and  the  argument  against  it  is  twofold. 
It  is  said  that,  though  much  in  the  theory  of 
democracy  may  be  granted  and  its  methods 
partially  adopted,  men  at  large  lack  the  wis- 
dom to  govern  themselves  for  good  in  society, 
and  also  that  they  control  by  their  votes  much 
more  than  is  rightfully  their  own.  The  opera- 
tion of  the  social  will  is  in  large  concerns 
of  men  requiring  knowledge  and  skill,  and 
it  has  no  limits.  In  state  affairs  education 
should  have  authority  reserved  to  it,  and  cer- 
tain established  interests,  especially  the  rights 
of  property,  should  be  exempted  from  popular 
control ;  and  the  effectual  means  of  securing 
these  ends  is  to  magnify  the  representatives  of 
education  and  property  to  such  a  degree  that 
they  will  retain  deciding  power.  But  is  this 
so  ?  or  if  there  be  some  truth  in  the  premises, 
may  it  not  be  contained  in  the  democratic 
scheme  and  reconciled  with  it  ?  And,  to  begin 
with,  is  education,  in  the  special  sense,  so 
important  in  the  fundamental  decisions  which 


DEMOCEACY  281 

the  suffrage  makes?  I  speak,  of  course,  of 
literary  education.  It  may  well  be  the  case 
that  the  judgment  of  men  at  large  is  suffi- 
ciently informed  and  sound  to  be  safe,  and  is 
the  safest,  for  the  reason  that  the  good  of 
society  is  for  all  in  common,  and  being,  from 
the  political  point  of  view,  in  the  main,  a  mate- 
rial good,  comes  home  to  their  business  and 
bosoms  in  the  most  direct  and  universal  way, 
in  their  comfort  or  deprivation,  in  prosperity 
and  hard  times,  in  war  and  famine,  and  those 
wide-extended  results  of  national  policies  which 
are  the  evidence  and  the  facts.  Politics  is  very 
largely,  and  one  might  almost  say  normally,  a 
conflict  of  material  interests ;  ideas  dissociated 
from  action  are  not  its  sphere ;  the  way  in 
which  policies  are  found  immediately  to  affect 
human  life  is  their  political  significance.  On 
the  broad  scale,  who  is  a  better  judge  of  their 
own  material  condition  and  the  modifications 
of  it  from  time  to  time,  of  what  they  receive 
and  what  they  need  from  political  agencies, 
than  the  individual  men  who  gain  or  suffer  by 
what  is  done,  on  so  great  a  scale  that,  combined, 
these  men  make  the  masses?  Experience  is 
their  touchstone,  and  it  is  an  experience  univer- 


232  HEART  OF   MAN 

sally  diffused.  Education,  too,  is  a  word  that 
will  bear  interpretation.  It  is  not  synonymous 
with  intelligence,  for  intelligence  is  native  in 
men,  and,  though  increased  by  education,  not 
conditioned  upon  it.  Intelligence,  in  the  limited 
sphere  in  which  the  unlearned  man  applies  it, 
in  the  things  he  knows,  may  be  more  powerful, 
more  penetrating,  comprehensive,  and  quick,  in 
him,  than  in  the  technically  educated  man;  for 
he  is  educated  by  things,  and  especially  in  those 
matters  which  touch  his  own  interests,  widely 
shared.  The  school  of  life  embodies  a  com- 
pulsory education  that  no  man  escapes.  If 
politics,  then,  be  in  the  main  a  conflict  of 
material  interests  broadly  affecting  masses  of 
men,  the  people,  both  individually  and  as  a 
body,  may  well  be  more  competent  to  deal  with 
the  matter  in  hand  intelligently  than  those 
who,  though  highly  educated,  are  usually  some- 
what removed  from  the  pressure  of  things,  and 
feel  results  and  also  conditions,  even  widely 
prevalent,  at  a  less  early  stage  and  with  less 
hardship,  and  at  best  in  very  mild  forms.  Be- 
sides, to  put  it  grossly,  it  is  often  not  brains 
that  are  required  to  diagnose  a  political  situa- 
tion so  much  as  stomachs.  The  sphere  of 


DEMOCRACY  233 

ideas,  of  reason  and  argument,  in  politics,  is 
really  limited ;  in  the  main,  politics  is,  as 
has  been  said,  the  selfish  struggle  of  material 
interests  in  a  vast  and  diversified  State. 

Common  experience  furnishes  a  basis  of  polit- 
ical fact,  well  known  to  the  people  in  their  state 
of  life,  and  also  a  test  of  any  general  policy  once 
put  into  operation.  The  capacity  of  the  people 
to  judge  the  event  in  the  long  run  must  be 
allowed.  But  does  broad  human  experience, 
however  close  and  pressing,  contain  that  fore- 
cast of  the  future,  that  right  choice  of  the 
means  of  betterment,  or  even  knowledge  of 
the  remedy  itself,  which  belong  in  the  proper 
sphere  of  enlightened  intelligence?  I  am  not 
well  assured  that  it  is  not  so.  The  masses  have 
been  long  in  existence,  and  what  affects  them 
is  seldom  novel ;  they  are  of  the  breed  that 

through 

"  old  experience  do  attain 

To  something  like  prophetic  strain." 

The  sense  of  the  people,  learning  from  their 
fathers  and  their  mothers,  sums  up  a  vast 
amount  of  wisdom  in  common  life,  and  more 
surely  than  in  others  the  half -conscious  tenden- 
cies of  the  times ;  for  in  them  these  are  vital 


234  HEART  OF  MAN 

rather  than  reflective,  and  go  on  by  the  force  of 
universal  conditions,  hopes,  and  energies.  In 
them,  too,  intelligence  works  in  precisely  the 
same  way  as  in  other  men,  and  in  politics  pre- 
cisely as  in  other  parts  of  life.  They  listen  to 
those  they  trust  who,  by  neighbourhood,  by  sym- 
pathetic knowledge  of  their  own  state,  or  actual 
share  in  it,  by  superior  powers  of  mind  and  a 
larger  fund  of  information,  are  qualified  to  be 
their  leaders  in  forming  opinion  and  their 
instruments  in  the  policy  they  adopt.  These 
leaders  may  be  called  demagogues.  They  may 
be  thought  to  employ  only  resources  of  trickery 
upon  dupes  for  selfish  ends ;  but  such  a  view, 
generally,  is  a  shallow  one,  and  not  justified  by 
facts.  It  is  right  in  the  masses  to  make  men 
like  themselves  and  nigh  to  them,  especially 
those  born  and  bred  in  their  own  condition  of 
life,  their  leaders,  in  preference  to  men,  how- 
ever educated,  benevolent,  and  upright,  who 
are  not  embodiments  of  the  social  conditions, 
needs,  and  aspirations  of  the  people  in  their 
cruder  life,  if  it  in  fact  substantially  be  so,  and 
to  allow  these  men,  so  chosen,  to  find  a  leader 
among  themselves.  Such  a  man  is  a  true  chief 
of  a  party,  who  is  not  an  individual  holding 


DEMOCRACY  285 

great  interests  in  trust  and  managing  them 
with  benevolent  despotism  by  virtue  of  his  own 
superior  brain ;  he  is  the  incarnation,  as  a 
party  chief,  of  other  brains  and  wills,  a  rep- 
resentative exceeding  by  far  in  wisdom  and 
power  himself,  a  man  in  whom  the  units  of 
society,  millions  of  them,  have  their  govern- 
mental life.  No  doubt  he  has  great  qualities 
of  sympathy,  comprehension,  understanding, 
tact,  efficient  power,  in  order  to  become  a 
chief ;  but  he  leads  by  following,  he  relies  on 
his  sense  of  public  support,  he  rises  by  virtue 
of  the  common  will,  the  common  sense,  which 
store  themselves  in  him.  Such  the  leaders  of 
the  people  have  always  been. 

If  this  process  —  and  it  is  to  be  observed 
that  as  the  scale  of  power  rises  the  more  lim- 
ited elements  of  social  influence  enter  into  the 
result  with  more  determining  force  —  be  appar- 
ently crude  in  its  early  stages,  and  imperfect  at 
the  best,  is  it  different  from  the  process  of 
social  expansion  in  other  parts  of  life?  Wher- 
ever masses  of  men  are  entering  upon  a  rising 
and  larger  life,  do  not  the  same  phenomena 
occur?  in  religion,  for  example,  was  there  not 
a  similar  popular  crudity,  as  it  is  termed  by 


236  HEART  OF  MAN 

some,  a  vulgarity  as  others  name  it,  in  the 
Methodist  movement,  in  the  Presbyterian  move- 
ment, in  the  Protestant  movement,  world- wide? 
Was  English  Puritanism  free  from  the  same 
sort  of  characteristics,  the  things  that  are  un- 
refined, as  belong  to  democratic  politics  in 
another  sphere  ?  The  method,  the  phenomena, 
are  those  that  belong  to  life  universal,  if  life  be 
free  and  efficient  in  moving  masses  of  men 
upward  into  more  noble  ranges.  Men  of  the 
people  lead,  because  the  people  are  the  stake. 
On  the  other  hand,  educated  leaders,  however 
well-intentioned,  may  be  handicapped  if  they 
are  not  rooted  deeply  in  the  popular  soil. 
Literary  education,  it  must  never  be  forgotten, 
is  not  specially  a  preparation  for  political  good 
judgment.  It  is  predominantly  concerned,  in 
its  high  branches,  with  matters  not  of  immediate 
political  consequence  —  with  books  generally, 
science,  history,  language,  technical  processes 
and  trades,  professional  outfits,  and  the  mani- 
fold activity  of  life  not  primarily  practical,  or 
if  practical  not  necessarily  political.  Men  of 
education,  scholars  especially,  even  in  the  field 
of  political  system,  are  not  by  the  mere  fact 
of  their  scholarship  highly  or  peculiarly  fitted 


DEMOCRACY  287 

to  take  part  in  the  active  leadership  of  politics, 
unless  they  have  other  qualifications  not  neces- 
sarily springing  from  their  pursuits  in  learning  ; 
they  are  naturally  more  engaged  with  ideas  in 
a  free  state,  theoretical  ideas,  than  with  ideas 
which  are  in  reality  as  much  a  part  of  life  as  of 
thought ;  and  the  method  of  dealing  with  these 
vitalized  and,  as  it  were,  adulterated  ideas  has 
a  specialty  of  its  own. 

It  must  be  acknowledged,  too,  that  in  the 
past,  the  educated  class  as  a  whole  has  com- 
monly been  found  to  entertain  a  narrow  view; 
it  has  been  on  the  side  of  the  past,  not  of  the 
future;  previous  to  the  revolutionary  era  the 
class  was  not  —  though  it  is  now  coming  to 
be  —  a  germinating  element  in  reform,  except 
in  isolated  cases  of  high  genius  which  foresees 
the  times  to  come  and  develops  principles  by 
which  they  come ;  it  has  been,  even  during  our 
era,  normally  in  alliance  with  property  and  an- 
cestry, to  which  it  is  commonly  an  appurtenance, 
and  like  them  is  deeply  engaged  in  the  estab- 
lished order,  under  which  it  is  comfortable,  en- 
joying the  places  there  made  for  its  functions, 
and  is  conservative  of  the  past,  doubtful  of  the 
changing  order,  a  hindrance,  a  brake,  often  a 


238  HEART  OF  MAN 

note  of  despair.  I  do  not  forget  the  great  excep- 
tions; but  revolutions  have  come  from  below, 
from  the  masses  and  their  native  leaders,  how- 
ever they  may  occasionally  find  some  prep- 
aration in  thinkers,  and  some  welcome  in 
aristocrats.  The  power  of  intellectual  educa- 
tion as  an  element  in  life  is  always  overvalued ; 
and,  within  its  sphere,  which  is  less  than  is 
represented,  it  is  subject  to  error,  prejudice,  and 
arrogance  of  its  own;  and,  being  without  any 
necessary  connection  with  love  or  conscience, 
it  has  often  been  a  reactionary,  disturbing, 
or  selfish  force  in  politics  and  events,  even 
when  well  acquainted  with  the  field  of  poli- 
tics, as  ever  were  any  of  the  forms  of  dema- 
gogy in  the  popular  life.  Intelligence,  in  the 
form  of  high  education,  can  make  no  authorita- 
tive claim,  as  such,  either  by  its  nature,  its 
history,  or,  as  a  rule,  its  successful  examples  in 
character.  The  suffrage,  except  as  by  natural 
modes  it  embodies  the  people's  practical  and 
general  intelligence,  in  direct  decisions  and  in 
the  representatives  of  themselves  whom  it 
elects  to  serve  the  State,  need  not  look  to 
high  education  as  it  has  been  in  the  privi- 
leged past,  for  light  and  leading  in  matters 


DEMOCEACY  239 

of  fundamental  concern  ;  education  remains 
useful,  as  expert  knowledge  is  always  useful 
in  matters  presently  to  be  acted  on ;  but  in 
so  far  as  it  is  separable  from  the  business  of 
the  State,  and  stands  by  itself  in  a  class  not 
servants  of  the  State  and  mainly  critical  and 
traditionary,  it  is  deserving  of  no  special  polit- 
ical trust  because  of  any  superiority  of  judgment 
it  may  allege.  In  fact,  education  has  entered 
with  beneficent  effect  into  political  life  with 
the  more  power,  in  proportion  as  it  has  become 
a  common  and  not  a  special  endowment,  and  the 
enfranchisement  of  education,  if  I  may  use  the 
term,  is  rather  a  democratic  than  an  aristocratic 
trait.  Education,  high  education  even,  is  more 
respected  and  counts  for  more  in  a  democracy 
than  under  the  older  systems.  But  in  a  democ- 
racy it  remains  true,  that  so  far  as  education 
deserves  weight,  it  will  secure  it  by  its  own 
resources,  and  enter  into  political  results,  as 
property  does,  with  a  power  of  its  own.  There, 
least  of  all,  does  it  need  privilege.  Education  is 
one  inequality  which  democracy  seems  already 
dissolving. 

What  suffrage  records,  in  opposition  it  may 
be  to  educated  opinion,  as  such,  is  the  mental 


240  HEART  OF  MAN 

state  of  the  people,  and  their  choices  of  the  men 
they  trust  with  the  accomplishment  of  what  is 
to  be  done.  If  the  suffrage  is  exposed  to  defect 
in  wisdom  by  reason  of  its  dulness  and  igno- 
rance, which  I  by  no  means  admit,  the  remedy 
lies  not  in  a  guardianship  of  the  people  by  the 
educated  class,  but  in  popular  education  itself, 
in  lower  forms,  and  the  diffusion  of  that  general 
information  which,  in  conjunction  with  sound 
morals,  is  all  that  is  required  for  the  comprehen- 
sion of  the  great  questions  decided  by  suffrage, 
and  the  choice  of  fit  leaders  who  shall  carry  the 
decisions  into  effect.  The  vast  increase  of  this 
kind  of  intelligence,  bred  of  such  schools  and 
such  means  for  the  spread  of  political  informa- 
tion as  have  grown  up  here,  has  been  a  meas- 
ureless gain  to  man  in  many  other  than  political 
ways.  No  force  has  been  so  great,  except  the 
discussion  of  religious  dogma  and  practice 
under  the  Reformation  in  northern  nations, 
in  establishing  a  mental  habit  throughout  the 
community.  The  suffrage  also  has  this  invalu- 
able advantage,  that  it  brings  about  a  substitu- 
tion of  the  principle  of  persuasion  for  that  of 
force,  as  the  normal  mode  of  dealing  with 
important  differences  of  view  in  State  affairs ; 


DEMOCRACY  241 

it  is,  in  this  respect,  the  corollary  of  free  speech, 
and  the  preservative  of  that  great  element  of 
liberty,  and  progress  under  liberty,  which  is  not 
otherwise  well  safe-guarded.  It  is  also  a  con- 
tinuous thing,  and  deals  with  necessities  and 
disagreements  as  they  arise  and  by  gradual 
means,  and  thus,  by  preventing  too  great  an 
accumulation  of  discontent,  it  avoids  revolution, 
containing  in  itself  the  right  of  revolution  in  a 
peaceable  form  under  law.  It  is,  moreover,  a 
school  into  which  the  citizen  is  slowly  re- 
ceived ;  and  it  is  capable  of  receiving  great 
masses  of  men  and  accustoming  them  to  polit- 
ical thought,  free  and  efficient  action  in  political 
affairs,  and  a  civic  life  in  the  State,  breeding  in 
them  responsibility  for  their  own  condition  and 
that  of  the  State.  It  is  the  voice  of  the  people 
always  speaking;  nor  is  it  to  be  forgotten, 
especially  by  those  who  fear  it,  that  the  ques- 
tions which  come  before  the  suffrage  for  settle- 
ment are,  in  view  of  the  whole  complex  and 
historic  body  of  the  State,  comparatively  few  ; 
for  society  and  its  institutions,  as  the  fathers 
handed  them  down,  are  accepted  at  birth  and 
by  custom  and  with  real  veneration,  as  our 
birthright,  —  the  birthright  of  a  race,  a  nation, 


242  HEART  OF  MAN 

and  a  hearth.  The  suffrage  does  not  under- 
take to  rebuild  from  the  foundations ;  the 
people  are  slow  to  remove  old  landmarks  ;  but 
it  does  mean  to  modify  and  strengthen  this 
inheritance  of  past  ages  for  the  better  accom- 
plishment of  the  ends  for  which  society  exists, 
and  the  better  distribution  among  men  of  the 
goods  which  it  secures. 

Fraternity,  the  third  constituent  of  democ- 
racy, enforces  the  idea  of  equality  through  its 
doctrine  of  brotherhood,  and  enlarges  the  idea 
of  liberty,  which  thus  becomes  more  than  an 
instrument  for  obtaining  private  ends,  is  in- 
spired with  a  social  spirit  and  has  bounds 
set  to  its  exercise.  Fraternity  leads  us,  in 
general,  to  share  our  good,  and  to  provide 
others  with  the  means  of  sharing  in  it.  This 
good  is  inexhaustible,  and  makes  up  welfare 
in  the  State,  the  common  weal.  It  is  in  the 
sphere  of  fraternity,  in  particular,  that  humani- 
tarian ideas,  and  those  expressions  of  the  social 
conscience  which  we  call  moral  issues,  gener- 
ally arise,  and  enter  more  or  less  completely 
into  political  life.  In  denning  politics  as,  in 
the  main,  a  selfish  struggle  of  material  inter- 
ests, this  was  reserved,  that,  from  time  to  time, 


DEMOCRACY  243 

questions  of  a  higher  order  do  arise,  such  as  that 
of  slavery  in  our  history,  which  have  in  them 
a  finer  element;  and,  though  it  be  true  that 
government  has  in  charge  a  race  which  is  yet 
so  near  to  the  soil  that  it  is  never  far  from  want, 
and  therefore  government  must  concern  itself 
directly  and  continuously  with  arrangements 
for  our  material  welfare,  yet  the  higher  life 
has  so  far  developed  that  matters  which  con- 
cern it  more  intimately  are  within  the  sphere 
of  political  action,  and  among  these  we  reckon 
all  those  causes  which  appeal  immediately  to 
great  principles,  to  liberty,  justice,  and  man- 
hood, as  things  apart  from  material  gain  or 
loss,  and  in  our  consciousness  truly  spiritual ; 
and  such  a  cause,  preeminently,  was  the  war 
for  the  Union,  heavy  as  it  was  with  the  fate 
of  mankind  under  democracy.  In  such  crises, 
which  seldom  arise,  material  good  is  subor- 
dinated for  the  time  being,  and  life  and  prop- 
erty, our  great  permanent  interests,  are  held 
cheap  in  the  balance  with  that  which  is  their 
great  charter  of  value,  as  we  conceive  our 
country. 

Yet  even  here  material  interests  are  not  far 
distant.     Such  issues  are  commonly  found   to 


244  HEART   OF   MAN 

be  involved  with  material  interests  in  conflict, 
or  are  alloyed  with  them  in  the  working  out; 
and  these  interests  are  a  constituent,  though,  it 
may  be,  not  the  controlling  matter.  It  is  com- 
monly felt,  indeed,  that  some  warrant  of  mate- 
rial necessity  is  required  in  any  great  political 
act,  for  politics,  as  has  been  said,  is  an  affair 
of  life,  not  of  free  ideas ;  and  without  such  a 
plain  authorization  reform  is  regarded  as  an 
invasion  of  personal  liberty  of  thought,  expres- 
sion, or  action,  which  is  the  breeding-place  of 
progressive  life  and  therefore  carefully  guarded 
from  intrusion.  In  proportion  as  the  material 
interests  are  less  clearly  affected  injuriously,  a 
cause  is  removed  into  the  region  of  moral 
suasion,  and  loses  political  vigour.  Religious 
issues  constitute  the  extreme  of  political  action 
without  regard  to  material  interests,  wars  of 
conversion  being  their  ultimate,  and  they  are 
more  potent  with  less  developed  races.  For 
this  reason  the  humanitarian  and  moral  sphere 
of  fraternity  lies  generally  outside  of  politics, 
in  social  institutions  and  habits,  which  political 
action  may  sometimes  favour  as  in  public  chari- 
ties, but  which  usually  rely  on  other  resources 
for  their  support.  On  occasions  of  crisis,  how- 


DEMOCRACY  246 

ever,  a  great  idea  may  marshal  the  whole 
community  in  its  cause ;  and,  more  and  more, 
the  cause  so  championed  under  democracy  is 
the  spiritual  right  of  man. 

But  fraternity  finds,  perhaps,  its  great  seal 
of  sovereignty  in  that  principle  of  persuasion 
which  has  been  spoken  of  already,  and  in  that 
substitution  of  it  for  force,  in  the  conduct  of 
human  affairs,  which  democracy  has  made,  as 
truly  as  it  has  replaced  tyranny  with  the  au- 
thority of  a  delegated  and  representative  lib- 
erty. Persuasion,  in  its  moral  form,  outside  of 
politics,  —  which  is  so  largely  resorted  to  in  a 
community  that  does  not  naturally  regard  the 
imposition  of  virtue,  even,  with  favour,  but 
believes  virtue  should  be  voluntary  in  the 
man  and  decreed  by  him  out  of  his  own  soul, 
—  need  not  be  enlarged  upon  here ;  but  in  its 
intellectual  form,  as  a  persuasion  of  the  mind 
and  will  necessarily  precedent  to  political  action, 
it  may  be  glanced  at,  since  law  thus  becomes 
the  embodied  persuasion  of  the  community,  and 
is  itself  no  longer  force  in  the  objectionable 
sense  ;  even  minorities,  to  which  it  is  adversely 
applied,  and  on  which  it  thus  operates  like  tyr- 
anny, recognize  the  different  character  it  bears 


246  HEART  OF  MAN 

to  arbitrary  power  as  that  has  historically  been. 
But  outside  of  this  refinement  of  thought  in 
the  analysis,  the  fact  that  the  normal  attitude 
of  any  cause  in  a  democracy  is  that  men  must 
be  persuaded  of  its  justice  and  expediency, 
before  it  can  impose  itself  as  the  will  of  the 
State  on  its  citizens,  marks  a  regard  for  men  as 
a  brotherhood  of  equals  and  freemen,  of  the 
highest  consequence  in  State  affairs,  and  with 
a  broad  overflow  of  moral  habit  upon  the  rest 
of  life. 

That  portion  of  the  community  which  is  not 
reached  by  persuasion,  and  remains  in  opposi- 
tion, must  obey  the  law,  and  submit,  such  is  the 
nature  of  society ;  but  minorities  have  acknowl- 
edged rights,  which  are  best  preserved,  per- 
haps, by  the  knowledge  that  they  may  be  useful 
to  all  in  turn.  These  rights  are  more  respected 
under  democracy  than  in  any  other  form  of 
government.  The  important  question  here, 
however,  is  not  the  conduct  of  the  State  toward 
an  opposition  in  general,  which  is  at  one  time 
composed  of  one  element  and  at  another  time 
of  a  different  element,  and  is  a  shifting,  change- 
able, and  temporary  thing  ;  but  of  its  attitude 
toward  the  more  permanent  and  inveterate 


DEMOCRACY  247 

minority  existing  in  class  interests,  which  are 
exposed  to  popular  attack.  The  capital  in- 
stance is  property,  especially  in  the  form  of 
wealth ;  and  here  belongs  that  objection  to  the 
suffrage,  which  was  lightly  passed  over,  to  the 
effect  that,  since  the  social  will  has  no  limits, 
to  constitute  it  by  suffrage  is  to  give  the  people 
control  of  what  is  not  their  own.  Property, 
reenforced  by  the  right  of  inheritance,  is  the 
great  source  of  inequality  in  the  State  and  the 
continuer  of  it,  and  gives  rise  perpetually  to 
political  and  social  questions,  attended  with 
violent  passions ;  but  it  is  an  institution  com- 
mon to  civilization,  it  is  very  old,  and  it  is 
bound  up  intimately  with  the  motive  energies 
of  individual  life,  the  means  of  supplying  soci- 
ety on  a  vast  scale  with  production,  distribu- 
tion, and  communication,  and  the  process  of 
taking  possession  of  the  earth  for  man's  use. 
Its  social  service  is  incalculable.  At  times, 
however,  when  accumulated  so  as  to  congest 
society,  property  has  been  confiscated  in  enor- 
mous amounts,  as  in  England  under  Henry 
VIII.,  in  France  at  the  Revolution,  and  in 
Italy  in  recent  times.  The  principle  of  para- 
mount right  over  it  in  society  has  been  estab- 


248  HEART  OF  MAN 

lished  in  men's  minds,  and  is  modified  only  by 
the  social  conviction  that  this  right  is  one  to  be 
exercised  with  the  highest  degree  of  care  and 
on  the  plainest  dictates  of  a  just  necessity. 
Taxation,  nevertheless,  though  a  power  to  de- 
stroy and  confiscate  in  its  extreme  exercise, 
normally  takes  nothing  from  property  that  is 
not  due.  It  is  not  a  levy  of  contributions,  but 
the  collection  of  a  just  debt ;  for  property  and 
its  owners  are  the  great  gainers  by  society, 
under  whose  bond  alone  wealth  finds  security, 
enjoyment,  and  increase,  carrying  with  them 
untold  private  advantages.  Property  is  deeply 
indebted  to  society  in  a  thousand  ways ;  and, 
besides,  much  of  its  material  cannot  be  said  to 
be  earned,  but  was  given  either  from  the  great 
stores  of  nature,  or  by  the  hand  of  the  law, 
conferring  privilege,  or  from  the  overflowing 
increments  of  social  progress.  If  it  is  natu- 
rally selfish,  acquisitive,  and  conservative,  if 
it  has  to  be  subjected  to  control,  if  its  duties 
have  to  be  thrust  upon  it  oftentimes,  it  has 
such  powers  of  resistance  that  there  need  be 
little  fear  lest  it  should  suffer  injustice.  Like 
education,  it  has  great  reserves  of  influence, 
and  is  assured  of  enormous  weight  in  the  life 


DEMOCRACY  249 

of  the  community.  Other  vested  interests 
stand  in  a  similar  relation  to  the  State.  These 
minorities,  which  are  important  and  lasting  ele- 
ments in  society,  receive  consideration,  and 
bounds  are  set  to  liberty  of  dealing  adversely 
with  them  in  practice,  under  that  principle  of 
fraternity  which  seeks  the  good  of  one  in  all 
and  the  good  of  all  in  one. 

Fraternity,  following  lines  whose  general 
sense  has  been  sufficiently  indicated,  has,  in 
particular,  established  out  of  the  common  fund 
public  education  as  a  means  of  diffusing  intel- 
lectual gain,  which  is  the  great  element  of 
growth  even  in  efficient  toil,  and  also  of  ex- 
tending into  all  parts  of  the  body  politic  a 
comprehension  of  the  governmental  scheme  and 
the  organized  life  of  the  community,  fusing  its 
separate  interests  in  a  mutual  understanding 
and  regard.  It  has  established,  too,  protection 
in  the  law,  for  the  weak  as  against  the  strong, 
the  poor  as  against  the  rich,  the  citizen  as 
against  those  who  would  trustee  the  State  for 
their  own  benefit ;  and,  on  the  broad  scale,  it 
provides  for  the  preservation  of  the  public 
health,  relief  of  the  unfortunate,  the  care  of  all 
children,  and  in  a  thousand  humane  ways  per- 


250  HEART  OF  MAN 

meates  the  law  with  its  salutary  justice.  It 
has,  again,  in  another  great  field,  established 
toleration,  not  in  religion  merely,  but  of  opin- 
ion and  practice  in  general ;  and  thereby  largely 
has  built  up  a  mutual  and  pervading  faith  in 
the  community  as  a  body  in  all  its  parts  and 
interests  intending  democratic  results  under 
human  conditions ;  it  has  thus  bred  a  habit  of 
reserve  at  moments  of  hardship  or  grave  diffi- 
culty, —  a  respect  that  awaits  social  justice  giv- 
ing time  for  it  to  be  brought  about,  —  which  as 
a  constituent  of  national  character  cannot  be 
too  highly  prized. 

The  object  of  all  government,  and  of  every 
social  system  is,  in  its  end  and  summary,  to 
secure  justice  among  mankind.  Justice  is  the 
most  sacred  word  of  men  ;  but  it  is  a  thing 
hard  to  find.  Law,  which  is  its  social  instru- 
ment, deals  with  external  act,  general  condi- 
tions, and  mankind  in  the  mass.  It  is  not, 
like  conscience,  a  searcher  of  men's  bosoms  ;  its 
knowledge  extends  no  farther  than  to  what 
shall  illuminate  the  nature  of  the  event  it 
examines ;  it  makes  no  true  ethical  award.  It 
is  in  the  main  a  method  of  procedure,  largely 
inherited  and  wholly  practical  in  intent,  applied 


DEMOCRACY  251 

to  recurring  states  of  fact ;  it  is  a  reasonable 
arrangement  for  the  peaceful  facilitation  of  hu- 
man business  of  all  social  kinds  ,  and  to  a  con- 
siderable degree  it  is  a  convention,  an  agreement 
upon  what  shall  be  done  in  certain  sets  of  cir- 
cumstances, as  an  approximation,  it  may  be,  to 
justice,  but,  at  all  events,  as  an  advantageous 
solution  of  difficulties.  This  is  as  true  of  its 
criminal  as  of  its  civil  branches.  Its  concern 
is  with  society  rather  than  the  individual,  and 
it  sacrifices  the  individual  to  society  without 
compunction,  applying  one  rule  to  all  alike, 
with  a  view  to  social,  not  individual,  results,  on 
the  broad  scale.  Those  matters  which  make 
individual  justice  impossible,  —  especially  the 
element  of  personal  responsibility  in  wrong- 
doing, how  the  man  came  to  be  what  he  is  and 
his  susceptibility  to  motives,  to  reason  and  to 
passion,  in  their  varieties,  and  all  such  con- 
siderations, —  law  ignores  in  the  main  question, 
however  it  may  admit  them  in  the  imperfect 
form  in  which  only  they  can  be  known,  as 
circumstances  in  extenuation  or  aggravation. 
This  large  part  of  responsibility,  it  will  seem 
to  every  reflective  moralist,  enters  little  into 
the  law's  survey;  and  its  penalties,  at  best, 


262  HEART  OF  MAN 

are  "the  rack  of  this  rude  world."  Death 
and  imprisonment,  as  it  inflicts  them,  are  for 
the  protection  of  society,  not  for  reformation, 
though  the  philanthropic  element  in  the  State 
may  use  the  period  of  imprisonment  with  a 
view  to  reformation ;  nor  in  the  history  of  the 
punishment  of  crime,  of  the  vengeance  as  such 
taken  on  men  in  addition  to  the  social  protec- 
tion sought,  has  society  on  the  whole  been  less 
brutal  in  its  repulse  of  its  enemies  than  they 
were  in  their  attack,  or  shown  any  eminent 
justice  toward  its  victims  in  the  sphere  of  their 
own  lives.  It  is  a  terrible  and  debasing  record, 
up  to  this  century  at  least,  and  uniformly  cor- 
rupted those  who  were  its  own  instruments. 
It  was  the  application  of  force  in  its  most 
material  forms,  and  dehumanized  those  upon 
whom  it  was  exercised,  placing  them  outside 
the  pale  of  manhood  as  a  preliminary  to  its 
work.  The  lesson  that  the  criminal  remains 
a  man,  was  one  taught  to  the  law,  not  learned 
from  it.  On  the  civil  side,  likewise,  similar 
reservations  must  be  made,  both  as  regards  its 
formulation  and  operation.  The  law  as  an 
instrument  of  justice  is  a  rough  way  of  dealing 
with  the  problems  of  the  individual  in  society, 


DEMOCRACY  253 

but  it  is  effective  for  social  ends  ;  and,  in  its 
total  body  and  practical  results,  it  is  a  priceless 
monument  of  human  righteousness,  sagacity, 
and  mercy,  and  though  it  lags  behind  opinion, 
as  it  must,  and  postpones  to  a  new  age 
the  moral  and  prudential  convictions  of  the 
present,  it  is  in  its  treasury  that  these  at 
last  are  stored. 

If  such  be  the  case  within  the  law,  what  in- 
difference to  justice  does  the  course  of  events 
exhibit  in  the  world  at  large  which  comes  under 
the  law's  inquisition  so  imperfectly!  How  con- 
tinuous and  inevitable,  how  terrible  and  pitiful 
is  this  aspect  of  life,  is  shown  in  successive 
ages  by  the  unending  story  of  ideal  tragedy,  in 
poem,  drama,  and  tale,  in  which  the  noble  na- 
ture through  some  frailty,  that  was  but  a  part, 
and  by  the  impulse  of  some  moment  of  brief 
time,  comes  to  its  wreck  ;  and,  in  connection 
with  this  disaster  to  the  best,  lies  the  action  of 
the  villain  everywhere  overflowing  in  suffering 
and  injury  upon  his  victims  and  all  that  is  theirs. 
What  is  here  represented  as  the  general  lot 
of  mankind,  in  ideal  works,  exists,  multiplied 
world-wide  in  the  lives  and  fortunes  of  man- 
kind, an  inestimable  amount  of  injustice  al- 


254  HEART  OF  MAN 

ways  present.  The  sacrifice  of  innocence  is  in 
no  way  lessened  by  aught  of  vengeance  that 
may  overtake  the  wrong-doer  ;  and  it  is  con- 
stant. The  murdered  man,  the  wronged  woman, 
can  find  no  reparation.  What  shall  one  say 
of  the  sufferings  of  children  and  of  the  old, 
and  of  the  great  curse  that  lies  in  heredity  and 
the  circumstances  of  early  life  under  depraved, 
ignorant,  or  malicious  conditions  ?  These  bru- 
talities, like  the  primeval  struggle  in  the  rise 
of  life,  seem  in  a  world  that  never  heard  the 
name  of  justice.  The  main  seat  of  individual 
justice  and  its  operation  is,  after  all,  in  the 
moral  sense  of  men,  governing  their  own  con- 
duct, and  modifying  so  far  as  possible  the  mass 
of  injustice  continually  arising  in  the  process 
of  life,  by  such  relief  as  they  can  give  by  per- 
sonal influence  and  action  both  on  persons  and 
in  the  realm  of  moral  opinion. 

But,  such  questions  apart,  and  within  the 
reach  of  the  rude  power  of  the  law  over  men 
in  the  mass,  where  individuality  may  be  neg- 
lected, there  remains  that  portion  of  the  field 
in  which  the  cause  of  justice  may  be  advanced, 
as  it  was  in  the  extinction  of  slavery,  the  con- 
fiscation of  the  French  lands,  the  abolition  of 


DEMOCRACY  266 

the  poor  debtor  laws,  and  in  similar  great  meas- 
ures of  class  legislation,  if  you  will.  I  confess 
I  am  one  of  those  who  hold  that  society  is 
largely  responsible  even  for  crime  and  pauper- 
ism, and  especially  other  less  clearly  denned 
conditions  in  the  community  by  which  there 
exists  an  inveterate  injustice  ingrained  in  the 
structure  of  society  itself.  The  process  of  free- 
ing man  from  the  fetters  of  the  past  is  still  in- 
complete, and  democracy  is  a  faith  still  early  in 
its  manifestation ;  social  justice  is  the  cry  under 
which  this  progress  is  made,  and,  being  grounded 
in  material  conditions  and  hot  with  men's  pas- 
sions under  wrong,  it  is  a  dangerous  cry,  and  un- 
heeded it  becomes  revolutionary;  but  in  what 
has  democracy  been  so  beneficent  to  society  as 
in  the  ways  without  number  that  it  has  opened 
for  the  doing  of  justice  to  men  in  masses,  for 
the  moulding  of  safe  and  orderly  methods  of 
change,  and  for  the  formation  as  a  part  of  hu- 
man character  of  a  habit  of  philanthropy  to 
those  especially  whose  misfortunes  may  be 
partly  laid  to  the  door  of  society  itself  ?  Char- 
ity, great  as  it  is,  can  but  alleviate,  it  cannot 
upon  any  scale  cure  poverty  and  its  attendant 
ills;  nor  can  mercy,  however  humanely  and 


256  HEART  OF  MAN 

wisely  exerted,  do  more  than  mollify  the  mis- 
fortune that  abides  in  the  criminal.  Social 
justice  asks  neither  charity  nor  mercy,  but  such 
conditions,  embodied  in  institutions  and  laws, 
as  shall  diminish,  so  far  as  under  nature  and 
human  nature  is  possible,  the  differences  of 
men  at  birth,  and  in  their  education,  and  in 
their  opportunity  through  life,  to  the  end  that 
all  citizens  shall  be  equal  in  the  power  to  begin 
and  conduct  their  lives  in  morals,  industry,  and 
the  hope  of  happiness.  Social  justice,  so  de- 
nned, under  temporal  conditions,  democracy 
seeks  as  the  sum  and  substance  of  its  effort  in 
governmental  ways ;  some  advance  has  been 
made ;  but  it  requires  no  wide  survey,  nor  long 
examination,  to  see  that  what  has  been  accom- 
plished is  a  beginning,  with  the  end  so  far  in 
the  future  as  to  seem  a  dream,  such  as  the  poets 
have  sung  almost  from  the  dawn  of  hope. 
What  matters  it?  It  is  not  only  poets  who 
dream  ;  justice  is  the  statesman's  dream. 

Such  in  bold  outline  are  the  principles  of 
democracy.  They  have  been  working  now  for 
a  century  in  a  great  nation,  not  wholly  unfet- 
tered and  on  a  complete  scale  even  with  us,  but 
with  wider  acceptance  and  broader  application 


DEMOCRACY  267 

than  elsewhere  in  the  world,  and  with  most 
prosperity  in  those  parts  of  the  country  where 
they  are  most  mastering;  and  the  nation 
has  grown  great  in  their  charge.  What, 
in  brief,  are  the  results,  so  clear,  so  grand, 
so  vast,  that  they  stand  out  like  moun- 
tain ranges,  the  configuration  of  a  national 
life?  The  diffusion  of  material  comfort  among 
masses  of  men,  on  a  scale  and  to  an  amount 
abolishing  peasantry  forever ;  the  dissemina- 
tion of  education,  which  is  the  means  of  life 
to  the  mind  as  comfort  is  to  the  body,  in  no 
more  narrow  bounds,  but  through  the  State 
universal,  abolishing  ignorance ;  the  develop- 
ment of  human  capacity  in  intelligence,  energy, 
and  character,  under  the  stimulus  of  the  open 
career,  with  a  result  in  enlarging  and  concen- 
trating the  available  talent  of  the  State  to  a 
compass  and  with  an  efficiency  and  diversity 
by  which  alone  was  possible  the  material  sub- 
jugation of  the  continent  which  it  has  made 
tributary  to  man's  life  ;  the  planting  of  self- 
respect  in  millions  of  men,  and  of  respect  for 
others  grounded  in  self-respect,  constituting 
a  national  characteristic  now  first  to  be  found, 
and  to  be  found  in  the  bosom  of  every  child 


258  HEART   OF   MAN 

of  our  soil,  and,  with  this,  of  a  respect  for 
womanhood,  making  the  common  ways  safe 
and  honourable  for  her,  unknown  before  ;  the 
moulding  of  a  conservative  force,  so  sure,  so 
deep,  so  instinctive,  that  it  has  its  seat  in  the 
very  vitals  of  the  State  and  there  maintains  as 
its  blood  and  bone  the  principles  which  the 
fathers  handed  down  in  institutions  containing 
our  happiness,  security,  and  destiny,  yet  main- 
tains them  as  a  living  present,  not  as  a  dead 
past ;  the  incorporation  into  our  body  politic  of 
millions  of  half-alien  people,  without  disturb- 
ance, and  with  an  assimilating  power  thai 
proves  the  universal  value  of  democracy  as  a 
mode  of  dealing  with  the  rr-.ce,  as  it  now  is  ;  an 
enthronement  of  reason  as  the  sole  arbiter  in  a 
free  forum  where  every  man  may  plead,  and 
have  the  judgment  of  all  men  upon  the  cause  ; 
a  rooted  repugnance  to  use  force  ;  an  aversion 
to  war  ;  a  public  and  private  generosity  that 
knows  no  bounds  of  sect,  race,  or  climate  ;  a 
devotion  to  public  duty  that  excuses  no  man 
and  least  of  all  the  best,  and  has  constantly 
raised  the  standard  of  character  ;  a  commisera- 
tion for  all  unfortunate  peoples  and  warm  sym- 
pathy with  them  in  their  struggles ;  a  love  of 


DEMOCRACY  259 

country  as  inexhaustible  in  sacrifice  as  it  is 
unparalleled  in  ardour  ;  and  a  will  to  serve  the 
world  for  the  rise  of  man  into  such  manhood  as 
we  have  achieved,  such  prosperity  as  earth  has 
yielded  us,  and  such  justice  as,  by  the  grace  of 
heaven,  is  established  within  our  borders.  Is 
it  not  a  great  work?  and  all  these  blessings, 
unconfined  as  the  element,  belong  to  all  our 
people.  In  the  course  of  these  results,  the 
imperfection  of  human  nature  and  its  institu- 
tions has  been  present;  but  a  just  comparison 
of  our  history  with  that  of  other  nations,  ages, 
and  systems,  and  of  our  present  with  our  past, 
shows  that  such  imperfection  in  society  has 
been  a  diminishing  element  with  us,  and  that 
a  steady  progress  has  been  made  in  methods, 
measures,  and  men.  No  great  issue,  in  a  whole 
century,  has  been  brought  to  a  wrong  conclu- 
sion. Our  public  life  has  been  starred  with 
illustrious  names,  famous  for  honesty,  sagacity, 
and  humanity,  and,  above  all,  for  justice.  Our 
Presidents  in  particular  have  been  such  men  as 
democracy  should  breed,  and  some  of  them  such 
men  as  humanity  has  seldom  bred.  We  are  a 
proud  nation,  and  justly ;  and,  looking  to  the 
future,  beholding  these  things  multiplied  mill- 


260  HEART  OF  MAN 

ion-fold  in  the  lives  of  the  children  of  the  land 
to  be,  we  may  well  humbly  own  God's  bounty 
which  has  earliest  fallen  upon  us,  the  first  fruits 
of  democracy  in  the  new  ages  of  a  humaner 
world. 

It  will  be  plain  to  those  who  have  read  what 
has  elsewhere  been  said  of  the  ideal  life,  that 
democracy  is  for  the  nation  a  true  embodiment 
of  that  life,  and  wears  its  characteristics  upon 
its  sleeve.  In  it  the  individual  mingles  with 
the  mass,  and  becomes  one  with  mankind,  and 
mankind  itself  sums  the  totality  of  individual 
good  in  a  well-nigh  perfect  way.  In  it  there  is 
the  slow  embodiment  of  a  future  nobly  con- 
ceived and  brought  into  existence  on  an  ideal 
basis  of  the  best  that  is,  from  age  to  age,  in 
man's  power.  It  includes  the  universal  wisdom, 
the  reach  of  thought  and  aspiration,  by  virtue  of 
which  men  climb,  and  here  manhood  climbs. 
It  knows  no  limit ;  it  rejects  no  man  who  wears 
the  form  Christ  wore  ;  it  receives  all  into  its 
benediction.  Through  democracy,  more  read- 
ily and  more  plainly  than  through  any  other 
system  of  government  or  conception  of  man's 
nature  and  destiny,  the  best  of  men  may  blend 
with  his  race,  and  store  in  their  common  life  the 


DEMOCRACY  261 

energies  of  his  own  soul,  looking  for  as  much 
aid  as  he  may  give.  Democracy,  as  elsewhere 
has  been  said,  is  the  earthly  hope  of  men ;  and 
they  who  stand  apart,  in  fancied  superiority  to 
mankind,  which  is  by  creation  equal  in  destiny, 
and  in  fact  equal  in  the  larger  part  of  human 
nature,  however  obstructed  by  time  and  cir- 
cumstance, are  foolish  withdrawers  from  the 
ways  of  life.  On  the  battle-field  or  in  the  sen- 
ate, or  in  the  humblest  cabin  of  the  West,  to 
lead  an  American  life  is  to  join  heart  and  soul 
in  this  cause. 


THE  RIDE 


THE  RIDE 

MYSTERY  is  the  natural  habitat  of  the  soul. 
It  is  the  child's  element,  though  he  sees  it  not ; 
for,  year  by  year,  acquiring  the  solid  and  pal- 
pable, the  visible  and  audible,  the  things  of 
mortal  life,  he  lives  in  horizons  of  the  senses. 
and  though  grown  a  youth  he  still  looks  in- 
tellectually for  things  definite  and  clear.  Edu- 
cation in  general  through  its  whole  period 
induces  the  contempt  of  all  else,  impressing 
almost  universally  the  positive  element  in  life, 
whose  realm  in  early  years  at  least  is  sensual. 
So  it  was  with  me  :  the  mind's  eye  saw  all 
that  was  or  might  be  in  an  atmosphere  of 
scepticism,  as  my  bodily  eye  beheld  the  world 
washed  in  colour.  Yet  the  habitual  sense  of 
mystery  in  man's  life  is  a  measure  of  wisdom 
in  the  man ;  and,  at  last,  if  the  mind  be  open 
and  turn  upon  the  poles  of  truth,  whether  in 
the  sage's  knowledge  or  the  poet's  emotion  or 
such  common  experience  of  the  world  as  all 


266  HEART  OF  MAN 

have,  mystery  visibly  envelops  us,  equally  in 
the  globed  sky  or  the  unlighted  spirit. 

I  well  remember  the  very  moment  when  a 
poetical  experience  precipitated  this  conviction 
out  of  moods  long  familiar,  but  obscurely  felt 
and  deeply  distrusted.  I  was  born  and  bred 
by  the  sea  ;  its  mystery  had  passed  into  my 
being  unawares,  and  was  there  unconscious,  or, 
at  least,  not  to  be  separated  from  the  moods 
of  my  own  spirit.  But  on  my  first  Italian 
voyage,  day  by  day  we  rolled  upon  the  tre- 
mendous billows  of  a  stormy  sea,  and  all  was 
strange  and  solemn  —  the  illimitable  tossing 
of  a  wave-world,  darkening  night  after  night 
through  weird  sunsets  of  a  spectral  and  un- 
known beauty,  enchantments  that  were  door- 
ways of  a  new  earth  and  new  heavens;  and, 
on  the  tenth  day,  when  I  came  on  deck  in  this 
water-world,  we  had  sighted  Santa  Maria,  the 
southernmost  of  the  Azores,  and  gradually  we 
drew  near  to  it.  I  shall  never  forget  the 
strangeness  of  that  sight — that  solitary  island 
under  the  sunlit  showers  of  early  morning  ;  it 
lay  in  a  beautiful  atmosphere  of  belted  mists 
and  wreaths  of  rain,  and  tracts  of  soft  sky, 
frequent  with  many  near  and  distant  rain- 


THE  RIDE  267 

bows  that  shone  and  faded  and  came  again  as 
we  steamed  through  them,  and  the  white  wings 
of  the  birds,  struck  by  the  sun,  were  the  whitest 
objects  I  have  ever  seen;  slowly  we  passed 
by,  and  I  could  not  have  told  what  it  was  in 
that  island  scene  which  had  so  arrested  me. 
But  when,  some  days  afterward,  at  the  harbor 
of  Gibraltar  I  looked  upon  the  magnificent 
rock,  and  saw  opposite  the  purple  hills  of 
Africa,  again  I  felt  through  me  that  unknown 
thrill.  It  was  the  mystery  of  the  land.  It  was 
altogether  a  discovery,  a  direct  perception,  a  new 
sense  of  the  natural  world.  Under  the  wild 
heights  of  Sangue  di  Christo  I  had  dreamed 
that  on  the  further  side  I  should  find  the  "  far 
west"  that  had  fled  before  me  beyond  the  river, 
the  prairies,  and  the  plains ;  but  there  was  no 
such  mystery  in  the  thought,  or  in  the  prospect, 
as  this  that  saluted  me  coining  landward  for  the 
first  time  from  the  ocean-world.  Since  that 
morning  in  the  Straits,  every  horizon  has  been 
a  mystery  to  me,  to  the  spirit  no  less  than  to 
the  eye ;  and  truths  have  come  to  me  like  that 
lone  island  embosomed  in  eternal  waters,  like 
the  capes  and  mountain  barriers  of  Africa 
thrusting  up  new  continents  unknown,  un- 


268  HEART  OF  MAN 

travelled,  of  a  land  men  yet  might  tread  as 
common  ground. 

"  A  poet's  mood "  —  I  know  what  once  I 
should  have  said.  But  mystery  I  then  accepted 
as  the  only  complement,  the  encompassment, 
of  what  we  know  of  our  life.  In  many  ways 
I  had  drawn  near  to  this  belief  before,  and  I 
have  since  many  times  confirmed  it.  One 
occasion,  however,  stands  out  in  my  memory 
even  more  intensely  than  those  I  have  made 
bold  to  mention,  —  one  experience  that  brought 
me  near  to  my  mother  earth,  as  that  out  of 
which  I  was  formed  and  to  which  I  shall  return, 
and  made  these  things  seem  as  natural  as  to 
draw  my  breath  from  the  sister  element  of  air. 
I  had  returned  to  the  West ;  and  while  there, 
wandering  in  various  places,  I  went  to  a  small 
town,  hardly  more  than  a  hamlet,  some  few 
hundred  miles  beyond  the  Missouri,  where  the 
mighty  railroad,  putting  out  a  long  feeler  for 
the  future,  had  halted  its  great  steel  branch — 
sinking  like  a  thunderbolt  into  the  ground  for 
no  imaginable  reason,  and  affecting  me  vaguely 
with  a  sense  of  utmost  limits.  There  a  younger 
friend,  five  years  my  junior,  in  his  lonely 
struggle  with  life  bore  to  live,  in  such  a  camp 


THE   RIDE  269 

of  pioneer  civilization  as  made  my  heart  fail  at 
first  sight,  though  not  unused  to  the  meagre- 
ness,  crudity,  and  hardness  of  such  a  place ; 
but  there  I  had  come  to  take  the  warm  wel- 
come of  his  hands  and  look  once  more  into 
his  face  before  time  should  part  us.  He  flung 
his  arms  about  me,  with  a  look  of  the  South 
in  his  eyes,  full  of  happy  dancing  lights,  and 
the  barren  scene  was  like  Italy  made  real  for 
one  instant  of  golden  time. 

But  if  we  had  wandered  momentarily,  as  if 
out  of  some  quiet  sunlit  gallery  of  Monte  Beni, 
I  soon  found  it  was  into  the  frontier  of  our 
western  border.  A  herd  of  Texas  ponies  were 
to  be  immediately  on  sale,  and  I  went  to  see  them 

—  wild   animals,   beautiful   in    their   wildness, 
who  had  never  known  bit  or  spur  ;  they  were 
lariated  and  thrown  down,  as  the  buyers  picked 
them  out,  and  then  led  and  pulled  away  to 
man's  life.     It  was  a  typical  scene :  the  pen,  the 
hundred  ponies  bunched  together  and  startled 
with  the  new  surroundings,  the  cowboys  whose 
resolute  habit  sat  on  them  like  cotillion  grace 

—  athletes  in  the  grain  —  with  the  gray,  close 
garb  for  use,  the  cigarette  like  a  slow  spark 
under  the  broad  sombrero,  the  belted  revolver, 


270  HEART  OF  MAN 

the  lasso  hung  loose-coiled  in  the  hand,  quiet, 
careless,  confident,  with  the  ease  of  the  master 
in  his  craft,  now  pulling  down  a  pony  without 
a  struggle,  and  now  showing  strength  and  dex- 
terity against  frightened  resistance ;  but  the 
hour  sped  on,  and  our  spoil  was  two  of  these 
creatures,  so  attractive  to  me  at  least  that  every 
moment  my  friend's  eye  was  on  me,  and  he 
kept  saying,  "  They're  wild,  mind  !  "  The  next 
morning  in  the  dark  dawn  we  had  them  in 
harness,  and  drove  out,  when  the  stars  were 
scarce  gone  from  the  sky,  due  north  to  the  Bad 
Lands,  to  give  me  a  new  experience  of  the  vast 
American  land  that  bore  us  both,  and  made  us, 
despite  the  thousands  of  miles  that  stretched 
between  ocean  and  prairie,  brothers  in  blood 
and  brain,  —  brothers  and  friends. 

Yet  how  to  tell  that  ride,  now  grown  a  shin- 
ing leaf  of  my  book  of  memory !  for  my  eyes 
were  fascinated  with  the  land,  in  the  high  blow- 
ing August  wind,  full  of  coolness  and  upland 
strength,  like  new  breath  in  my  nostrils ;  and 
forward  over  the  broken  country,  fenceless, 
illimitable,  ran  the  brown  road,  like  a  ploughed 
ribbon  of  soil,  into  the  distance,  where  pioneer 
and  explorer  and  prospector  had  gone  before, 


THE  BIDE  271 

and  now  the  farmer  was  thinly  settling,  —  the 
new  America  growing  up  before  my  eyes !  and 
him  only  by  me  to  make  me  not  a  stranger 
there,  with  talk  of  absent  friends  and  old  times, 
though  scarce  the  long  age  of  a  college  course 
had  gone  by,  —  talk  lapsing  as  of  old  on  such 
rides  into  serious  strains,  problems  such  as  the 
young  talk  of  together  and  keep  their  secret, 
learning  life, — the  troubles  of  the  heart  of  youth. 
And  if  now  I  recur  to  some  of  the  themes  we 
touched  on,  and  set  down  these  memoranda, 
fragments  of  life,  thinking  they  may  be  of  use 
to  other  youths  as  they  were  then  to  us,  I 
trust  they  will  lose  no  privacy ;  for,  as  I  write, 
I  see  them  in  that  place,  with  that  noble  pros- 
pect, that  high  sky,  and  him  beside  me  whose 
young  listening  yet  seems  to  woo  them  from 
my  breast. 

We  mounted  the  five-mile  ridge,  —  and, 
"Poor  Robin,"  he  said,  "what  of  him?" 
"Poor  Robin  sleeps  in  the  Muses'  graveyard," 
I  laughed,  "in  the  soft  gray  ashes  of  my 
blazing  hearth.  One  must  live  the  life  before 
he  tells  the  tale."  "I  loved  his  'awaken- 
ing.' "  he  replied,  "  and  I  have  often  thought 
of  it  by  myself.  And  will  nothing  come  of 


272  HEART  OF   MAN 

him  now?"  "Who  can  tell?"  I  said,  looking 
hard  off  over  the  prairie.  "  The  Muses  must 
care  for  their  own.  That '  awakening,'  "  I  went 
on,  after  a  moment  of  wondering  why  the  dis- 
tant stream  of  the  valley  was  called  "  the  Look- 
ing-glass," and  learning  only  that  such  was  its 
name,  "was  when  after  the  bookish  torpor  of 
his  mind  —  you  remember  he  called  books  his 
opiates  —  he  felt  the  beauty  of  the  spring  and 
the  marvel  of  human  service  come  back  on  him 
like  a  flood.  It  was  the  growing  consciousness 
of  how  little  of  life  is  our  own.  Youth  takes 
life  for  granted;  the  hand  that  smoothed  his 
pillow  the  long  happy  years,  the  springs  that 
brought  new  blossoms  to  Ms  cheeks,  the  com- 
mon words  that  martyr  and  patriot  have  died 
to  form  on  childish  lips,  and  make  them  native 
there  with  life's  first  breath,  are  natural  to  him  as 
Christmas  gifts,  and  bring  no  obligation.  Our 
life  from  babyhood  is  only  one  long  lesson  in 
indebtedness ;  and  we  best  learn  what  we  have 
received  by  what  we  give.  This  was  dawning 
on  my  hero  then.  I  recall  how  he  ran  the 
new  passion.  That  outburst  you  used  to  like, 
amid  the  green  bloom  of  the  prairies,  like  the 
misted  birches  at  home,  under  the  heaven-wide 


THE  RIDE  273 

warmth  of  April  breathing  with  universal  mild- 
ness through  the  softened  air  —  why,  you  can 
remember  the  very  day,"  I  said.  "  It  was 
one  — "  "  Yes,  I  can  remember  more  than 
that,"  he  interrupted ;  "  I  know  the  words,  or 
some  of  them ;  what  you  just  said  was  the  old 
voice  —  tang  and  colour  —  Poor  Robin's  voice  ; " 
and  he  began,  and  I  listened  to  the  words, 
which  had  once  been  mine;  and  now  were  his. 

"  By  heaven,  I  never  believed  it.  '  Clotho 
spins,  Lachesis  weaves,  and  Atropos  cuts,'  I 
said,  '  and  the  poor  illusion  vanishes ;  the  loud 
laughter,  the  fierce  wailing,  die  on  pale  lips ; 
the  foolish  and  the  wise,  the  merciful  and  the 
pitiless,  the  workers  in  the  vineyard  and  the 
idlers  in  the  market-place,  are  huddled  into 
one  grave,  and  the  heart  of  Mary  Mother  and 
of  Mary  Magdalen  are  one  dust.'  Duly  in 
those  years  the  sun  rose  to  cheer  me;  the 
breath  of  the  free  winds  was  in  my  nostrils ; 
the  grass  made  my  pathways  soft  to  my  feet. 
Spring  with  its  blossomed  fruit  trees,  and  the 
ungarnered  summer,  gladdened  me ;  the  flame 
of  autumn  was  my  torch  of  memory,  and  win- 
ter lighted  my  lamp  of  solitude.  Men  tilled 


274  HEART   OF   MAN 

the  fields  to  feed  me,  and  worked  the  loom  to 
clothe  me,  and  so  far  as  in  them  was  power 
and  in  me  was  need,  brought  to  my  doors  sus- 
tenance for  the  body  and  whatsoever  of  divine 
truth  was  theirs  for  my  soul.  Women  minis- 
tered to  me  in  blessed  charities ;  and  some 
among  my  fellows  gave  me  their  souls  in  keep- 
ing. How  true  is  that  which  my  friend  said 
to  the  poor  boy-murderer  condemned  to  die,  — 
'  I  tell  you,  you  cannot  escape  the  mercy  of 
God;'  and  tears  coursed  down  the  imbruted 
face,  and  once  more  the  human  soul,  that  the 
ministers  of  God  could  not  reach,  shone  in  its 
tabernacle.  Now  the  butterfly  has  flown  in  at 
the  tavern-window,  and  rebuked  me.  I  go  out, 
and  on  the  broad  earth  the  warm  sun  shines ; 
the  spring  moves  throughout  our  northern 
globe  as  when  first  man  looked  upon  it ;  the 
seasons  keep  their  word ;  the  birds  know  their 
pathways  through  the  air;  the  animals  feed 
and  multiply ;  the  succession  of  day  and  night 
has  no  shadow  of  turning ;  the  stars  keep  their 
order  in  the  blue  depths  of  infinite  space ; 
Sirius  has  not  swerved  from  his  course,  nor 
Aldebaran  flamed  beyond  his  sphere ;  nature 
puts  forth  her  strength  in  all  the  vast  compass 


THE   RIDE  275 

of  her  domain,  and  is  manifest  in  life  that  con- 
tinues and  is  increased  in  fuller  measures  of 
joy,  heightened  to  fairer  beauty,  instinct  with 
love  in  the  heart  of  man.  Wiser  were  the 
ascetics  whom  I  used  to  scorn;  they  made 
themselves  ascetics  of  the  body,  but  I  have 
been  an  ascetic  of  the  soul." 

"  Eccola!  "  I  said,  "  was  it  like  that  ?  But  a 
heady  rhetoric  is  not  inconsistent  with  sobriety 
of  thought,  as  many  a  Victorian  page  we  have 
read  together  testifies.  The  style  tames  with 
the  spirit ;  and  wild  blood  is  not  the  worst  of 
faults  in  poets  or  boys.  But  I  will  change  old 
coin  for  the  new  mintage  with  you,  if  you  like, 
and  it  is  not  so  very  different.  There  is  a 
good  stretch  ahead,  and  the  ponies  never  seem 
to  misbehave  both  at  once."  In  fact,  these 
ponies,  who  seemed  to  enjoy  the  broad,  open 
world  with  us,  had  yet  to  learn  the  first  lesson 
of  civilization,  and  unite  their  private  wills  in 
rebellion ;  for,  while  one  or  the  other  of  them 
would  from  time  to  time  fling  back  his  heels 
and  prepare  to  resist,  the  other  dragged  him 
into  the  course  with  the  steady  pace,  and, 
under  hand  and  voice,  they  kept  going  in  a 


276  HEART  OF  MAN 

much  less  adventurous  way  than  I  had  an- 
ticipated. And  so  I  read  a  page  or  two  from 
the  small  blank-book  in  which  I  used  to  write, 
saying  only,  by  way  of  preface,  that  the  April 
morning  my  friend  so  well  remembered  marked 
the  time  when  I  began  that  direct  appeal  to 
life  of  which  these  notes  were  the  first- 
fruits. 

The  waters  of  the  Looking-glass  had  been 
lost  behind  its  bluffs  to  the  west  as  we  turned 
inland,  though  we  still  rose  with  the  slope  of 
the  valley ;  and  now  on  higher  land  we  saw  the 
open  country  in  a  broad  sweep,  but  with  bolder 
configuration  than  was  familiar  to  me  in  prairie 
regions,  the  rolling  of  the  country  being  in  great 
swells;  and  this  slight  touch  of  strangeness, 
this  accentuation  of  the  motionless  lines  of 
height  and  hollow,  and  the  general  lift  of  the 
land,  perhaps,  was  what  first  gave  that  life  to 
the  soil,  that  sense  of  a  presence  in  the  earth 
itself,  which  was  felt  at  a  later  time.  Then  I 
saw  only  the  outspread  region,  with  here  and 
there  a  gleam  of  the  grain  on  side-hills  and 
far-curved  embrasures  of  the  folded  slopes,  or 
great  stands  of  Indian  corn,  acres  within  acres, 
and  hardly  a  human  dwelling  anywhere ;  the 


THE   RIDE  277 

loneliness,  the  majesty,  the  untouched  primi- 
tiveness  of  it,  were  the  elements  I  remember ; 
and  the  wind,  and  the  unclouded  great  expanse 
of  the  blue  upper  sky,  like  a  separate  element 
lifted  in  deep  color  over  the  gold  of  harvest, 
the  green  of  earth,  and  the  touches  of  brown 
road  and  soil.  So,  with  pauses  for  common 
sights  and  things,  and  some  word  of  comment 
and  fuller  statement  and  personal  touches  that 
do  not  matter  now,  I  read  my  brief  notes  of 
life  in  its  most  sacred  part. 

"The  gift  of  life  at  birth  is  only  a  little 
breath  on  a  baby's  lips ;  the  air  asks  no  consent 
to  fill  the  lungs,  the  heart  beats,  the  senses 
awaken,  the  mind  begins,  and  the  first  hand- 
writing of  life  is  a  child's  smile;  but  as  boy- 
hood gathers  fuller  strength,  and  youth  hives 
a  more  intimate  sweetness,  and  manhood  ex- 
pands in  richer  values,  life  is  not  less  entirely 
a  gift.  As  well  say  a  self -born  as  a  self-made 
man.  Nature  does  not  intrust  to  us  her  bod- 
ily processes  and  functions,  and  the  fountains 
of  feeling  within  well  up,  and  the  forms  of 
thought  define,  without  obligation  to  man's 
wisdom;  body  and  soul  alike  are  above  his 


278  HEART  OF  MAN 

will  —  our  garment  of  sense  comes  from  no 
human  loom,  nor  were  the  bones  of  the  spirit 
fashioned  by  any  mortal  hands;  in  our  prog- 
ress and  growth,  too,  bloom  of  health  and 
charm  of  soul  owe  their  loveliness  to  that  law 
of  grace  that  went  forth  with  the  creative 
word.  Slow  as  men  are  to  realize  the  fact 
and  the  magnitude  of  this  great  grant,  and 
the  supreme  value  of  it  as  life  itself  in  all  its 
abundance  of  blessings,  there  comes  a  time  to 
every  generous  and  open  heart  when  the  youth 
is  made  aware  of  the  stream  of  beneficence  flow- 
ing in  upon  him  from  the  forms  and  forces  of 
nature  with  benedictions  of  beauty  and  vigour ; 
he  knows,  too,  the  cherishing  of  human  service 
all  about  him  in  familiar  love  and  the  large 
brothering  of  man's  general  toil ;  he  begins  to 
see,  shaping  itself  in  him,  the  vast  tradition  of 
the  past,  —  its  mighty  sheltering  of  mankind  in 
institution  and  doctrine  and  accepted  hopes,  its 
fostering  agencies,  its  driving  energies.  What 
a  breaking  out  there  is  then  in  him  of  the  emo- 
tions that  are  fountain-heads  of  permanent  life, 
—  filial  love,  patriotic  duty,  man's  passion  for 
humanity  !  It  is  then  that  he  becomes  a  man. 
Strange  would  it  be,  if,  at  such  tidal  moments, 


THE   RIDE  279 

the   youth    should   not,  in   pure  thankfulness, 
find  out  the  Giver  of  all  good! 

"As  soon  as  man  thus  knows  himself  a  crea- 
ture, he  has  established  a  direct  relation  with 
the  Creator,  did  he  but  realize  it, —  not  in  mere 
thought  of  some  temporal  creation,  some  ante- 
cedent fact  of  a  beginning,  but  in  immediate 
experience  of  that  continuing  act  which  keeps 
the  universe  in  being, 

'  Which  wields  the  world  with  never  wearied  love, 
Sustains  it  from  beneath  and  kindles  it  above,'  — 

felt  and  known  now  in  the  life  which,  moment 
to  moment,  is  his  own.  The  extreme  sense  of 
this  may  take  on  the  expression  of  the  panthe- 
istic mood,  as  here  in  Shelley's  words,  without 
any  logical  irreverence  :  for  pantheism  is  that 
great  mood  of  the  human  spirit  which  it  is,' 
permanent,  recurring  in  every  age  and  race,  as 
natural  to  Wordsworth  as  to  Shelley,  because  of 
the  fundamental  character  of  these  facts  and 
the  inevitability  of  the  knowledge  of  them. 
The  most  arrogant  thought  of  man,  since  it 
identifies  him  with  deity,  it  springs  from  that 
same  sense  of  insignificance  which  makes  hu- 
mility the  characteristic  of  religious  life  in  all 


280  HEART  OF  MAN 

its  forms.  A  mind  deeply  penetrated  with  the 
feeling  that  all  we  take  and  all  we  are,  our  joys 
and  the  might  and  grace  of  life  in  us,  are  the 
mere  lendings  of  mortality  like  Lear's  rags, 
may  come  to  think  man  the  passive  receptacle 
of  power,  and  the  instrument  scarce  distin- 
guishable from  the  hand  that  uses  it ;  the 
thought  is  as  nigh  to  St.  Paul  as  to  Plato. 
This  intimate  and  infinite  sense  of  obligation 
finds  its  highest  expression,  on  the  secular 
side,  and  takes  on  the  touch  of  mystery,  in 
those  great  men  of  action  who  have  believed 
themselves  in  a  special  manner  servants  of  God, 
and  in  great  poets  who  found  some  consecration 
in  their  calling.  They,  more  than  other  men, 
know  how  small  is  any  personal  part  in  our 
labours  and  our  wages  alike.  But  in  all  men 
life  comes  to  be  felt  to  be,  in  itself  and  its  in- 
struments, this  gift,  this  debt ;  to  continue  to 
live  is  to  contract  a  greater  debt  in  proportion 
to  the  greatness  of  the  life  ;  it  is  greatest  in  the 
greatest. 

"  This  spontaneous  gratitude  is  a  vital  thing. 
He  who  is  most  sensitive  to  beauty  and  prizes 
it,  who  is  most  quick  to  love,  who  is  most  ardent 
in  the  world's  service,  feels  most  constantly  this 


THE   RIDE  881 

power  which  enfolds  him  in  its  hidden  infinity; 
he  is  overwhelmed  by  it :  and  how  should 
gratitude  for  such  varied  and  constant  and  ex- 
haustless  good  fail  to  become  a  part  of  the  daily 
life  of  his  spirit,  deepening  with  every  hour  in 
which  the  value,  the  power  and  sweetness  of 
life,  is  made  more  plain  ?  Yet  at  the  same  in- 
stant another  and  almost  contrary  mood  is  twin- 
born  with  this  thankfulness,  —  the  feeling  of 
helplessness.  Though  the  secret  and  inscruta- 
ble power,  sustaining  and  feeding  life,  be  truly 
felt,  - 

'  Closer  is  He  than  breathing  and  nearer  than 
hands  and  feet,'  — 

though  in  moments  of  life's  triumphs  it  evokes 
this  natural  burst  of  happy  gratitude,  yet  who 
can  free  himself  from  mortal  fear,  or  dispense 
with  human  hope,  however  firm  and  irremova- 
ble may  be  his  confidence  in  the  beneficent 
order  of  God?  And  especially  in  the  more 
strenuous  trials  of  later  ages  for  Christian  per- 
fection in  a  world  not  Christian,  and  under  the 
mysterious  dispensation  of  nature,  even  the 
youth  has  lived  little,  and  that  shallowly,  who 
does  not  crave  companionship,  guidance,  pro- 


282  HEART  OF  MAN 

tection.  Dependent  as  he  feels  himself  to  be 
for  all  he  is  and  all  he  may  become,  the  means 
of  help  —  self-help  even  —  and  the  law  of  it 
must  be  from  that  same  power,  whose  efficient 
working  he  has  recognized  with  a  thankful 
heart.  Where  else  shall  he  look  except  to  that 
experience  of  exaltation  during  whose  continu- 
ance he  plucked  a  natural  trust  for  the  future, 
a  reasonable  belief  in  Providence,  and  a  humble 
readiness  to  accept  the  partial  ills  of  life?  In 
life's  valleys,  then,  as  on  its  summits,  in  the 
darkness  as  in  the  light,  he  may  retain  that 
once  confided  trust ;  not  that  he  looks  for  mira- 
cle, or  any  specific  and  particularizing  care,  it 
may  be,  but  that  in  the  normal  course  of  things 
he  believes  in  the  natural  alliance  of  that  arm 
of  infinite  power  with  himself.  In  depression. 
in  trouble,  in  struggle,  such  as  all  life  exhibits, 
he  will  be  no  more  solitary  than  in  his  hours  of 
blessing.  Thus,  through  helplessness  also,  he 
establishes  a  direct  relation  with  God,  which  is 
also  a  reality  of  experience,  as  vital  in  the  cry 
for  aid  as  in  the  offering  of  thanks.  The  grati- 
tude of  the  soul  may  be  likened  to  that  morn- 
ing prayer  of  the  race  which  was  little  more 
than  praise  with  uplifted  hands ;  the  helpless- 


THE  RIDE  283 

ness  of  man  is  rather  the  evening  prayer  of  the 
Christian  age,  which  with  bowed  head  implores 
the  grace  of  God  to  shield  him  through  the 
night.  These  two,  in  all  times,  among  all 
races,  under  ten  thousand  divinities,  have  been 
the  voices  of  the  heart. 

"  There  is  a  third  mood  of  direct  experience 
by  which  one  approaches  the  religious  life. 
Surely  no  man  in  our  civilization  can  grow 
far  in  years  without  finding  out  that,  in  the 
effort  to  live  a  life  obeying  his  desires  and 
worthy  of  his  hopes,  his  will  is  made  one  with 
Christ's  commands ;  and  he  knows  that  the 
promises  of  Christ,  so  far  as  they  relate  to 
the  life  that  now  is,  are  fulfilled  in  himself 
day  by  day;  he  can  escape  neither  the  ideal 
that  Christ  was,  nor  the  wisdom  of  Christ  in 
respect  to  the  working  of  that  ideal  on  others 
and  within  himself.  He  perceives  the  evil  of 
the  world,  and  desires  to  share  in  its  redemp- 
tion ;  its  sufferings,  and  would  remove  them ; 
its  injustice,  and  would  abolish  it.  He  is,  by 
the  mere  force  of  his  own  heart  in  view  of 
mankind,  a  humanitarian.  But  he  is  more 
than  this  in  such  a  life.  If  he  be  sincere,  he 
has  not  lived  long  before  he  knows  in  himself 


284  HEART  OF  MAN 

such  default  of  duty  that  he  recognizes  it 
as  the  soul's  betrayal ;  its  times  and  occa- 
sions, its  degrees  of  responsibility,  its  character 
whether  of  mere  frailty  or  of  an  evil  will,  its 
greater  or  less  offence,  are  indifferent  matters ; 
for,  as  it  is  the  man  of  perfect  honour  who  feels 
a  stain  as  a  wound,  and  a  shadow  as  a  stain, 
so  poignancy  of  repentance  is  keenest  in  the 
purest  souls.  It  is  death  that  is  dull,  it  is 
life  that  is  quick.  It  may  well  be,  in  the 
world's  history  in  our  time,  that  the  suffering 
caused  in  the  good  by  slight  defections  from 
virtue  far  overbalances  the  general  remorse  felt 
for  definite  and  habitual  crime.  Thus  none  — 
those  least  who  are  most  hearts  of  conscience 

—  escapes  this  emotion,  known  in  the  language 
of  religion  as  conviction  of  sin.     It  is  the  earli- 
est moral  crisis  of  the  soul ;  it  is  widely  felt, 

—  such  is   the  nature   and   such   the   circum- 
stances of  men;    and,  as  a  man  meets   it  in 
that  hour,  as  he  then  begins  to  form  the  habit 
of  dealing  with  his  failures  sure  to  come,  so 
runs  his  life  to  the  end  save  for  some  great 
change.     If  then  some  restoring  power  enters 
in,  some  saving  force,  whether  it  be  from  the 
memory   and   words   of   Christ,   or    from    the 


THE  RIDE  286 

example  of  those  lives  that  were  lived  in 
the  spirit  of  that  ideal,  or  from  nearer  love 
and  more  tender  affection  enforcing  the  su- 
premacy of  duty  and  the  hope  of  struggle,  —  in 
whatever  way  that  healing  comes,  it  is  well; 
and,  just  as  the  man  of  honest  mind  has  rec- 
ognized the  identity  of  his  virtue  with  Christ's 
rule,  and  has  verified  in  practice  the  wisdom 
of  its  original  statement,  so  now  he  knows 
that  this  moral  recovery,  and  its  method,  is 
what  has  been  known  on  the  lips  of  saint 
and  sinner  as  the  life  of  the  Spirit  in  man, 
and  even  more  specially  he  cannot  discrimi- 
nate it  from  what  the  servants  of  Christ  call 
the  life  of  Christ  in  them.  He  has  become 
more  than  a  humanitarian  through  this  experi- 
ence ;  he  is  now  himself  one  of  those  whom 
in  the  mass  he  pities  and  would  help  ;  he  has 
entered  into  that  communion  with  his  kind 
and  kin  which  is  the  earthly  seal  of  Christian 
faith. 

"  Yet  it  seems  to  me  a  profound  error  in  life 
to  concentrate  attention  upon  the  moral  expe- 
rience here  described ;  it  is  but  initial ;  and, 
though  repeated,  it  remains  only  a  beginning ; 
as  the  vast  force  of  nature  is  put  forth  through 


286  HEART   OF   MAN 

health,  and  its  curative  power  is*  an  incident 
and  subordinate,  so  the  spiritual  energy,  of  life 
is  made  manifest,  in  the  main,  in  the  joy  of 
the  soul  in  so  far  as  it  has  been  made  whole. 
A  narrow  insistence  on  the  fact  of  sin  distorts 
life,  and  saddens  it  both  in  one's  own  con- 
science and  in  his  love  for  others.  Sin  is  but 
a  part  of  life,  and  it  is  far  better  to  fix  our 
eyes  on  the  measureless  good  achieved  in  those 
lines  of  human  effort  which  have  either  never 
been  deflected  from  right  aims,  or  have  been 
brought  back  to  the  paths  of  advance,  which 
I  believe  to  be  the  greater  part,  both  in  indi- 
vidual lives  of  noble  intention,  and  in  the 
Christian  nations.  Sin  loses  half  its  dismay- 
ing power,  and  evil  is  stripped  of  its  terrors, 
if  one  recognizes  how  far  ideal  motives  enter 
with  controlling  influence  into  personal  life, 
and  to  what  a  degree  ideal  destinies  are  already 
incarnate  in  the  spirit  of  great  nations. 

"However  this  may  be,  I  find  on  examina- 
tion of  man's  common  experience  these  three 
things,  which  establish,  it  seems  to  me,  a  direct 
relation  between  him  and  God :  this  spontane- 
ous gratitude,  this  trustful  dependence,  this 
noble  practice,  which  is,  historically,  the  Chris- 


THE   RIDE  287 

tian  life,  and  is  characterized  by  its  distinc- 
tive experiences.  They  are  simple  elements :  a 
faith  in  God's  being  which  has  not  cared  fur- 
ther to  define  the  modes  of  that  being;  a 
hope  which  has  not  grown  to  specify  even  a 
Resurrection  ;  a  love  that  has  not  concentrated 
itself  through  limitation  upon  any  instrumen- 
tal conversion  of  the  world;  but,  inchoate  as 
they  are,  they  remain  faith,  hope,  love  —  these 
three.  Are  they  not  sufficient  to  be  the  begin- 
nings of  the  religious  life  in  the  young?  To 
theological  learning,  traditional  creeds,  and 
conventional  worship  they  may  seem  primitive, 
slight  in  substance,  meagre  in  apparel ;  but 
one  who  is  seeking,  not  things  to  believe,  but 
things  to  live,  desires  the  elementary.  In 
setting  forth  first  principles,  the  elaboration 
of  a  more  highly  organized  knowledge  may 
be  felt  as  an  obscuration  of  truth,  an  impedi- 
ment to  certainty,  a  hindrance  in  the  effort  to 
touch  and  handle  the  essential  matter;  and 
for  this  reason  a  teacher  dispenses  with  much 
in  his  exposition,  just  as  in  talking  to  a  child  a 
grown  man  abandons  nine-tenths  of  his  vocab- 
ulary. In  the  same  way,  learning  as  a  child, 
seeking  in  the  life  of  the  soul  with  God  what 


288  HEART  OF  MAN 

is  normal,  vital,  and  universal,  the  beginner 
need  not  feel  poor  and  balked,  because  he 
does  not  avail  himself  as  yet  of  resources  that 
belong  to  length  of  life,  breadth  of  scholar- 
ship, intellectual  power,  the  saint's  ardour,  the 
seer's  insight. 

"The  spiritual  life  here  defined,  elementary 
as  it  is,  appears  inevitable,  part  and  parcel  of 
our  natural  being.  Why  should  this  be  sur- 
prising? Surely  if  there  be  a  revelation  of 
the  divine  at  all,  it  must  be  one  independent 
of  external  things ;  one  that  comes  to  all  by 
virtue  of  their  human  nature ;  one  that  is 
direct,  and  not  mediately  given  through  others. 
Faith  that  is  vital  is  not  the  fruit  of  things 
told  of,  but  of  things  experienced.  It  follows 
that  religion  may  be  essentially  free  from  any 
admixture  of  the  past  in  its  communication  to 
the  soul.  It  cannot  depend  on  events  of  a 
long-past  time  now  disputable,  or  on  books  of 
a  far-off  and  now  alien  age.  These  things  are 
the  tradition  and  history  of  the  spiritual  life, 
but  not  the  life.  To  the  mass  of  men  religion 
derived  from  such  sources  would  be  a  belief 
in  other  men's  experience,  and  for  most  of 
them  would  rest  on  proofs  they  cannot  scruti- 


THE  RIDE  289 

nize.  It  would  be  a  religion  of  authority,  not 
of  personal  and  intimate  conviction.  Just  as 
creation  may  be  felt,  not  as  some  far-off  event, 
but  a  continuing  act,  revelation  itself  is  a  pres- 
ent reality.  Do  not  the  heavens  still  declare 
the  glory  of  God  as  when  they  spoke  to  the 
Psalmist  ?  and  has  the  light  that  lighteth  every 
man  who  is  born  into  the  world  ceased  to  burn 
in  the  spirit  since  the  first  candle  was  lit  on 
a  Christian  altar?  If  the  revelation  of  glory 
and  mercy  be  an  everlasting  thing,  and  inex- 
tinguishable save  in  the  life  itself,  then  only 
is  that  direct  relation  of  man  with  God,  this 
vital  certainty  in  living  truth,  —  living  in  us,  — 
this  personal  religion,  possible. 

"  What  has  reform  in  religion  ever  been  other 
than  the  demolition  of  the  interfering  barriers, 
the  deposit  of  the  past,  between  man  and  God? 
The  theory  of  the  office  of  the  Holy  Spirit  in 
the  Church  expresses  man's  need  of  direct 
contact  with  the  divine ;  the  doctrine  of  tran- 
substantiation  symbolizes  it ;  and  what  is 
Puritanism  in  all  ages,  affirming  the  pure 
spirit,  denying  all  forms,  but  the  heart  of 
man  in  his  loneliness,  seeking  God  face  to 
face?  what  is  its  iconoclasm  of  image  and 


290  HEART  OF  MAN 

altar,  of  prayer-book  and  ritual,  of  the  Coun- 
cils and  the  Fathers,  but  the  assertion  of  the 
noble  dignity  in  each  individual  soul  by  virtue 
of  which  it  demands  a  freeman's  right  of  audi- 
ence, a  son's  right  of  presence  with  his  father, 
and  believes  that  such  is  God's  way  with  his 
own?  This  immediacy  of  the  religious  life, 
being  once  accepted  as  the  substance  of  vitality 
in  it,  relieves  man  at  once  of  the  greater  mass 
of  that  burden  in  which  scepticism  thrives  and 
labours.  The  theories  of  the  past  respecting 
God's  government,  no  longer  possible  in  a 
humaner  and  Christianized  age,  the  impaired 
genuineness  of  the  Scriptures  and  all  ques- 
tions of  their  text  and  accuracy,  even  the 
great  doctrine  of  miracles,  cease  to  be  of  vital 
consequence.  A  man  may  approach  divine 
truth  without  them.  Simple  and  bare  as  the 
spiritual  life  here  presented  is,  it  is  not  open 
to  such  sceptical  attack,  being  the  fundamen- 
tal revelation  of  God  bound  up  in  the  very 
nature  of  man  which  has  been  recognized  at 
so  many  critical  times,  in  so  many  places  and 
ages,  as  the  inward  light.  We  may  safely 
leave  dogma  and  historical  criticism  and  sci- 
entific discovery  on  one  side ;  it  is  not  in  them 


THE   RIDE  291 

that  man  finds  this  inward  wisdom,  but  in  the 
religious  emotions  as  they  naturally  arise  under 
the  influence  of  life. 

"This  view  is  supported  rather  than  weak- 
ened by  such  records  of  the  spiritual  life  in 
man  as  we  possess.  Man's  nature  is  one  ;  and, 
just  as  it  is  interpreted  and  illuminated  by  the 
poets  from  whom  we  derive  direction  in  our 
general  conduct,  it  is  set  forth  and  illustrated 
by  saintly  men  and  holy  women  in  the  special 
sphere  of  the  soul's  life  with  God.  Our  nature 
is  one  with  theirs  ;  but  as  there  are  differences 
in  the  aptitudes,  sensibilities,  and  fates  of  all 
men,  so  is  it  with  spiritual  faculties  and  their 
growth ;  and,  from  time  to  time,  men  have 
arisen  of  such  intense  nature,  so  sensitive  to 
religious  emotions,  so  developed  in  religious 
experience,  through  instinct,  circumstance,  and 
power,  that  they  can  aid  us  by  the  example 
and  precept  of  their  lives.  To  them  belongs 
a  respect  similar  to  that  paid  to  poets  and 
thinkers.  Yet  it  is  because  they  tell  us  what 
they  have  seen  and  touched,  not  what  they 
have  heard,  —  what  they  have  lived  and  shown 
forth  in  acts  that  bear  testimony  to  their 
words,  that  they  have  this  power.  Such  were 


292  HEART   OF  MAN 

St.  Augustine,  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  St.  Thomas 
a  Kempis,  and  many  a  humbler  name  whose 
life's  story  has  come  into  our  hands ;  such  Avere 
the  Apostles,  and,  preeminently,  Christ.  It  is 
the  reality  of  the  life  in  them,  personal,  direct, 
fundamental,  that  preserves  their  influence  in 
other  lives.  They  help  us  by  opening  and 
directing  the  spiritual  powers  we  have  in 
common  ;  and  beyond  our  own  experience  we 
believe  in  their  counsels  as  leading  to  Avhat 
we  in  our  turn  may  somewhat  attain  to  in  the 
life  they  followed.  It  is  not  Avhat  they  believed 
of  God,  but  what  God  accomplished  in  them, 
that  holds  our  attention  ;  and  we  interpret  it 
only  by  what  ourselves  have  known  of  his  deal- 
ing with  us.  It  is  life,  and  the  revelation  of 
God  there  contained,  that  in  others  or  ourselves 
is  the  root  of  the  matter  —  God  in  us.  This  is 
the  corner  stone." 

The  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens  when  we 
ceased  talking  of  these  matters  and  saw  in  a 
lowland  before  us  a  farmhouse,  Avhere  we 
stopped.  It  was  a  humble  dAvelling  —  almost 
the  humblest  —  partly  built  of  sod,  Avith  a  barn 
near  by,  and  nothing  to  distinguish  it  except 


THE   RIDE  298 

the  sign,  "Post  Office,"  which  showed  it  was 
the  centre  of  this  neighborhood,  if  "  the  blank 
miles  round  about "  could  be  so  called.  We 
were  made  welcome,  and,  the  ponies  being  fed 
and  cared  for,  we  sat  down  with  the  farmer 
and  his  wife  and  the  small  brood  of  young 
children,  sharing  their  noonday  meal.  It  was 
a  rude  table  and  a  lowly  roof  ;  but,  when  I 
arose,  I  was  glad  to  have  been  at  such  a  board, 
taking  a  stranger's  portion,  but  not  like  a 
stranger.  It  was  to  be  near  the  common  lot, 
and  the  sense  of  it  was  as  primitive  as  the 
smell  of  the  upturned  earth  in  spring ;  it  had 
the  wholesomeness  of  life  in  it.  Going  out,  I 
lay  down  on  the  ground  and  talked  with  the 
little  boy,  some  ten  years  old,  to  whom  our 
coming  was  evidently  an  event  of  importance  ; 
and  I  remember  asking  him  if  he  ever  saw 

a  city.     He  had  been  once,  he  said,  to  

—  the  hamlet,  as  I  thought  it,  which  we  had 
just  left  —  with  his  father  in  the  farm -wagon. 
That  was  his  idea  of  the  magnificence  of  cities. 
I  could  not  but  look  at  him  curiously.  Here 
was  the  creature,  just  like  other  boys,  who 
knew  less  of  the  look  of  man's  world  than  any 
one  I  had  ever  encountered.  To  him  this  over- 


294  HEART  OF  MAN 

stretching  silent  sky,  this  vacant  rolling  reach 
of  earth,  and  home,  were  all  of  life.  What 
a  waif  of  existence  !  —  but  the  ponies  being 
ready,  we  said  our  good-byes  and  drove  on 
along  fainter  tracks,  still  northward.  We 
talked  for  a  while  in  that  spacious  atmosphere 
—  the  cheerful  talk,  half  personal,  half  literary, 
lightly  humorous,  too,  which  we  always  had 
together  ;  but  tiring  of  it  at  last,  and  the  boy 
still  staying  in  my  mind  as  a  kind  of  accidental 
symbol  of  that  isolated  being  whom  my  notes 
had  described,  and  knowing  that  I  had  told  but 
half  my  story  and  that  my  friend  would  like 
the  rest,  I  turned  the  talk  again  on  the  serious 
things,  saying — and  there  was  nothing  surpris- 
ing in  such  a  change  with  us  —  "After  all,  you 
know,  we  can't  live  to  ourselves  alone  or  by 
ourselves.  How  to  enter  life  and  be  one  with 
other  men,  how  to  be  the  child  of  society,  and 
a  peer  there,  belongs  to  our  duty  ;  and  to  escape 
from  the  solitude  of  private  life  is  the  most 
important  thing  for  men  of  lonely  thought  and 
feeling,  such  as  meditation  breeds.  There  is 
more  of  it,  if  you  will  listen  again ; "  and  he, 
with  the  sparkle  in  his  eyes,  and  the  youthful 
happiness  in  the  new  things  of  life  for  us, — 


THE   RIDE  205 

new  as  if  they  had  not  been  lived  a  thousand 
years  before,  —  listened  like  a  child  to  a  story, 
grave  as  the  matter  was,  which  I  read  again 
from  the  memoranda  I  had  made,  after  that 
April  morning,  year  by  year. 

"Respect  for  age  is  the  natural  religion  of 
childhood  ;  it  becomes  in  men  a  sentiment  of 
the  soul.  An  obscure  melancholy,  the  pathos 
of  human  fate,  mingles  with  this  instinctive 
feeling.  The  fascination  of  the  sea,  the  sub- 
limity of  mountains,  are  indebted  to  it,  as  well 
as  the  beautiful  and  solemn  stars,  which,  like 
them,  the  mind  does  not  distinguish  from  eter- 
nal things,  and  has  ever  invested  with  sacred 
awe.  It  is  the  sense  of  our  mortality  that  thus 
exalts  nature.  Yet  before  her  antiquity  merely, 
veneration  is  seldom  full  and  perfect;  her 
periods  are  too  impalpable,  and,  in  contemplat- 
ing their  vastness,  amazement  dissipates  our 
faculties.  Rather  some  sign  of  human  occu- 
pancy, turning  the  desert  into  a  neglected  gar- 
den, is  necessary  to  give  emotional  colour  and 
the  substance  of  thought ;  some  touch  of  man's 
hand  that  knows  a  writing  beyond  nature's 
can  add  what  centuries  could  not  give,  and 


296  HEART   OF  MAN 

makes  a  rock  a  monument.  The  Mediterranean 
islet  is  older  for  the  pirate  tower  that  caps  it, 
and  for  us  the  ivied  church,  with  its  shadowed 
graves,  makes  England  ancestral  soil.  Nor  is 
it  only  such  landmarks  of  time  that  bring  this 
obscure  awe ;  occupations,  especially,  awake  it, 
and  customary  ceremonies,  and  all  that  enters 
into  the  external  tradition  of  life,  handed  down 
from  generation  to  generation.  On  the  West- 
ern prairies  I  have  felt  rather  the  permanence 
of  human  toil  than  the  newness  of  the  land. 

"  The  sense  of  age  in  man's  life,  relieved,  as 
it  is,  on  the  seeming  agelessness  of  nature,  is  a 
meditation  on  death,  deep-set  far  below  thought. 
We  behold  the  sensible  conquests  of  death,  and 
the  sight  is  so  habitual,  and  remains  so  mys- 
terious, that  it  leaves  its  imprint  less  in  the 
conscious  and  reflective  mind  than  in  tempera- 
ment, sentiment,  imagination,  and  their  hidden 
stir;  the  pyramids  then  seem  fossils  of  mankind; 
Stonehenge,  Indian  mounds,  and  desolate  cities 
are  like  broken  anchors  caught  in  the  sunken 
reef  and  dull  ooze  of  time's  ocean,  lost  relics  of 
their  human  charge  long  vanished  away.  Star- 
tling it  is,  when  the  finger  of  time  has  touched 
what  we  thought  living,  and  we  find  in  some 


THE   RIDE  2*97 

solitary  place  the  face  of  stone.  I  learned  this 
lesson  on  the  low  marshes  of  Ravenna,  where, 
among  the  rice-fields  and  the  thousands  of 
white  pond  lilies,  stands  a  lonely  cathedral, 
from  whose  ruined  sides  Christianity,  in  the 
face  and  figure  it  wore  before  it  put  on  the 
form  and  garb  of  a  world-wide  religion,  looked 
down  on  ine  with  the  unknown  eyes  of  an 
alien  and  Oriental  faith.  '  Stranger,  why  lin- 
gerest  thou  in  this  broken  tomb,'  I  seemed  to 
hear  from  silent  voices  in  that  death  of  time  ; 
and  still,  when  my  thoughts  seek  the  Mother- 
Church  of  Christendom,  they  go,  not  to  St.  John 
Lateran  by  the  Roman  wall,  but  are  pilgrims 
to  the  low  marshes,  the  white  water  lilies,  the 
lone  Byzantine  ruin  that  even  the  sea  has  long 
abandoned. 

"  The  Mother-Church? — is  then  this  personal 
religious  life  only  a  state  of  orphanage  ?  Be- 
cause true  life  necessarily  begins  in  the  inde- 
pendent self,  must  it  continue  without  the 
sheltering  of  the  traditional  past,  the  instructed 
guidance  of  elder  wisdom,  and  man's  joint  life 
in  common  which  by  association  so  enlarges 
and  fortifies  the  individual  good  ?  Why  should 
one  not  behave  with  respect  to  religion  as  he 


298  HEART  OF  MAN 

does  in  other  parts  of  life  ?  It  is  our  habit 
elsewhere  in  all  quarters  to  recognize  beyond 
ourselves  an  ampler  knowledge,  a  maturer 
judgment,  a  more  efficient  will  enacting  our 
own  choice.  To  obey  by  force  is  a  childish 
or  a  slavish  act,  but  intelligently  and  willingly 
to  accept  authority  within  just  limits  is  the 
reasonable  and  practical  act  of  a  free  man  in 
society ;  the  recognition  of  this  by  a  youth 
marks  his  attainment  of  intellectual  majority. 
Authority,  in  all  its  modes,  is  the  bond  of  the 
commonwealth  ;  until  the  youth  comprehends 
it  he  is  a  ward ;  thereafter  he  is  either  a  rebel 
or  a  citizen,  as  he  lists.  For  us,  born  to  the 
largest  measure  of  freedom  society  has  ever 
known,  there  is  little  fear  lest  the  principle  of 
authority  should  prove  a  dangerous  element. 
The  right  of  private  judgment,  which  is,  I 
believe,  the  vital  principle  of  the  intellectual 
life,  is  the  first  to  be  exercised  by  our  young 
men  who  lead  that  life ;  and  quite  in  the  spirit 
of  that  education  which  would  repeat  in  the 
child  the  history  of  the  race,  we  are  scarce  out 
of  the  swaddling  bands  of  the  primer  and  cate- 
chism before  we  would  remove  all  questions  to 
the  court  of  our  own  jurisdiction.  The  mind  is 


THE   RIDE  299 

not  a  tabula  rasa  at  birth,  we  learn,  but,  so  soon 
as  may  be,  we  will  remedy  that,  and  erase  all 
records  copied  there.  The  treasure  doors  of 
our  fathers'  inheritance  are  thrown  open  to  us  ; 
but  we  will  weigh  each  gold  piece  with  balance 
and  scale.  All  that  libraries  contain,  all  that 
institutions  embody,  all  the  practice  of  life 
which,  in  its  innocence,  mankind  has  adopted 
as  things  of  use  and  wont,  shall  be  certified  by 
our  scrutiny.  So  in  youth  we  say,  and  what 
results?  What  do  the  best  become?  Incapa- 
bles,  detached  from  the  sap  of  life,  forced  to 
escape  to  the  intellectual  limbo  of  a  suspension 
of  judgment,  extending  till  it  fills  heaven  and 
earth.  We  no  longer  discuss  opinions  even; 
the  most  we  can  attain  to  is  an  attitude  of 
mind.  In  view  of  the  vast  variety  of  phases 
in  which  even  man's  great  ideas  have  been 
held,  a  sense  of  indifference  among  them,  a 
vacuity  in  all,  grows  up.  Pilate's  question, 
'  What  is  truth? '  ends  all. 

"This  is  the  extreme  penalty  of  the  heroic 
sceptical  resolve  in  strong  and  constant  minds ; 
commonly  those  who  would  measure  man's  large 
scope  by  the  gauge  of  their  own  ability  and 
experience  fall  into  such  idiosyncrasy  as  is  the 


300  HEART  OF  MAN 

fruitful  mother  of  sects,  abortive  social  schemes, 
and  all  the  various  brood  of  dwarfed  life  ;  but, 
for  most  men,  the  pressure  of  life  itself,  which 
compels  them,  like  Descartes,  doubting  the 
world,  to  live  as  if  it  were  real,  corrects  their 
original  method  of  independence.  They  find 
that  to  use  authority  is  the  better  part  of  wis- 
dom, much  as  to  employ  men  belongs  to  prac- 
tical statecraft ;  and  they  learn  the  reasonable 
share  of  the  principle  of  authority  in  life. 
They  accept,  for  example,  the  testimony  of 
others  in  matters  of  fact,  and  their  mental 
results  in  those  subjects  with  which  such  men 
are  conversant,  on  the  ground  of  a  just  faith  in 
average  human  capacity  in  its  own  sphere ; 
and,  in  particular,  they  accept  provisional  opin- 
ions, especially  such  as  are  alleged  to  be  verifi- 
able in  action,  and  they  put  them  to  the  test. 
This  is  our  habit  in  all  parts  of  secular  life  — 
in  scholarship  and  in  practical  affairs.  '  If  any 
man  will  do  His  will,  he  shall  know  of  the  doc- 
trine, whether  it  be  of  God,'  is  only  a  special 
instance  of  this  law  of  temporary  acceptance 
and  experiment  in  all  life.  It  is  a  reasonable 
command.  The  confusion  of  human  opinion 
largely  arises  from  the  fact  that  the  greater 


THE   HIDE  301 

part  of  it  is  unverifiable,  owing  to  the  deficient 
culture  or  opportunity  of  those  who  hold  it; 
and  the  persistency  with  which  such  opinion  is 
argued,  clung  to,  and  cherished,  is  the  cause  of 
many  of  the  permanent  differences  that  array 
men  in  opposition.  The  event  would  dispense 
with  the  argument ;  but  in  common  life,  which 
knows  far  more  of  the  world  than  it  has  in  its 
own  laboratory,  much  lies  beyond  the  reach  of 
such  real  solution.  It  is  the  distinction  of  vital 
religious  truth  that  it  is  not  so  withdrawn  from 
true  proof,  but  is  near  at  hand  in  the  daily  life 
open  to  all. 

"Such  authority,  then,  as  is  commonly 
granted  in  science,  politics,  or  commerce  to 
the  past  results  and  expectations  of  men  bring- 
ing human  life  in  these  provinces  down  to  our 
time  and  delivering  it,  not  as  a  new,  but  as  an 
incomplete  thing,  into  the  hands  of  our  genera- 
tion, we  may  yield  also  in  religion.  The  lives 
of  the  saints  and  all  those  who  in  history  have 
illustrated  the  methods  and  results  of  piety, 
their  convictions,  speculations,  and  hopes,  their 
warning  and  encouragement,  compose  a  great 
volume  of  instruction,  illustration,  and  educa- 
tion of  the  religious  life.  It  is  folly  to  ignore 


302  HEART   OF   MAN 

this,  as  it  would  be  to  ignore  the  alphabet  of 
letters,  the  Arabic  numerals,  or  the  Constitu- 
tion ;  for,  as  these  are  the  monuments  of  past 
achievement  and  an  advantage  we  have  at  our 
start  over  savage  man,  so  in  religion  there  are 
as  well  established  results  of  life  already  lived. 
Though  the  religious  life  be  personal,  it  is  not 
more  so  than  all  life  of  thought  and  emotion ; 
and  in  it  we  do  not  begin  at  the  beginning  of 
time  any  more  than  in  other  parts  of  life.  We 
begin  with  an  inheritance  of  many  experiments 
hitherto,  of  many  methods,  of  a  whole  race- 
history  of  partial  error,  partial  truth ;  and  we 
take  up  the  matter  where  our  fathers  laid  it 
down,  with  the  respect  due  to  their  earnest 
toil,  their  sincere  effort  and  trial,  their  convic- 
tions ;  and  the  youth  who  does  not  feel  their 
impressiveness  as  enforcing  his  responsibility 
has  as  nascent  a  life  in  religion  as  he  would 
have,  in  the  similar  case,  in  learning  or  in 
citizenship. 

"The  question  of  authority  in  the  religious 
life,  however,  is  more  specific  than  this,  and  is 
not  to  be  met  by  an  admission  of  the  general 
respect  due  to  the  human  past  and  its  choicer 
spirits,  and  our  dependence  thereon  for  the  fos- 


THE    RIDE  303 

tering  of  instinctive  impulses,  direction,  and 
the  confirmation  of  our  experience.  It  is  or- 
ganized religion  that  here  makes  its  claim  to 
fealty,  as  organized  liberty,  organized  justice 
do,  in  man's  communal  life.  There  is  a  joint 
and  general  consent  in  the  masses  of  men  with 
similar  experience  united  into  the  Church,  with 
respect  to  the  religious  way  of  life,  similar  to 
that  of  such  masses  united  into  a  government 
with  respect  to  secular  things.  The  history  of 
the  Church  with  its  embodied  dogmas  —  the 
past  of  Christendom  —  contains  that  consent ; 
and  the  Church  founds  its  claim  to  veneration 
on  this  broad  accumulation  of  experience,  so 
gathered  from  all  ages  and  all  conditions  of 
men  as  to  have  lost  all  traces  of  individuality 
and  become  the  conviction  of  mankind  to  a 
degree  that  no  free  constitution  and  no  legal 
code  can  claim.  To  substitute  the  simple  faith 
of  the  young  heart,  however  immediate,  in  the 
place  of  this  hoary  and  commanding  tradition 
is  a  daring  thing,  and  may  seem  both  arro- 
gance and  folly ;  to  stand  apart  from  it,  though 
willing  to  be  taught  within  the  free  exercise  of 
our  own  faculties,  abashes  us ;  and  it  is  neces- 
sary, for  our  own  self-respect,  to  adopt  some 


304  HEART   OF   MAN 

attitude  toward  the  Church  definitely,  not  as  a 
part  of  the  common  mass  of  race-tradition  in 
a  diffused  state  like  philosophy,  but  as  an  insti- 
tution like  the  Throne  or  the  Parliament. 

"  But  may  it  not  be  pleaded  that,  however 
slight  by  comparison  personal  life  may  seem, 
yet  if  it  be  true,  the  Church  must  include  this 
in  its  own  mighty  sum ;  and  that  what  the 
Church  adds  to  define,  expand,  and  elevate,  to 
guide  and  support,  belongs  to  growth  in  spirit- 
ual things,  not  to  those  beginnings  which  only 
are  here  spoken  of?  And  in  defence  of  a  pri- 
vate view  and  hesitancy,  such  as  is  also  felt  in 
the  organized  social  life  elsewhere,  may  it  not 
be  suggested  that  the  past  of  Christendom, 
great  as  it  is  in  mental  force,  moral  ardour,  and 
spiritual  insight,  and  illustrious  with  triumphs 
over  evil  in  man  and  in  society,  and  shining 
always  with  the  leading  of  a  great  light,  is  yet 
a  human  past,  an  imperfect  stage  of  progress 
at  every  era?  Is  its  historic  life,  with  all  its 
accumulation  of  creed  and  custom,  not  a  process 
of  Christianization,  in  which  much  has  been 
sloughed  off  at  every  new  birth  of  the  world  ? 
In  reading  the  Fathers  we  come  on  states  of 
mind  and  forms  of  emotion  due  to  transitory 


THE   RIDE  305 

influences  and  surroundings  ;  and  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  Church,  we  come  upon  dogmas, 
ceremonials,  methods  of  work  and  aims  of 
effort,  which  were  of  contemporary  validity 
only.  Such  are  no  longer  rational  or  possible  ; 
they  have  passed  out  of  life,  belonging  to  that 
body  of  man  which  is  forever  dying,  not  to  the 
spirit  that  is  forever  growing ;  and,  too,  as  all 
men  and  bodies  of  men  share  in  imperfection, 
we  come,  in  the  Fathers  and  in  the  Church, 
upon  passions,  persecutions,  wars,  vices,  degra- 
dation, and  failure,  necessarily  to  be  accounted 
as  a  portion  of  the  admixture  of  sin  and  wrong, 
of  evil,  in  the  whole  of  man's  historic  life.  In 
view  of  these  obvious  facts,  and  also  of  the 
great  discrepancies  of  such  organic  bodies  as 
are  here  spoken  of  in  their  total  mass  as  the 
Church,  and  of  their  emphasis  upon  such  par- 
ticularities, is  not  an  attitude  of  reserve  justi- 
fiable in  a  young  and  conscientious  heart?  It 
may  seem  to  be  partial  scepticism,  especially  as 
the  necessity  for  rejection  of  some  portion  of 
this  embodied  past  becomes  clearer  in  the 
growth  of  the  mind's  information  and  the 
strengthening  of  moral  judgment  in  a  rightful 
independence.  But  if  much  must  be  cast  away, 


306  HEART  OF   MAN 

let  it  not  disturb  us;  it  must  be  the  more  in 
proportion  as  the  nature  of  man  suffers  redemp- 
tion. Let  us  own,  then,  and  reverence  the 
great  tradition  of  the  Church ;  but  he  has 
feebly  grasped  the  idea  of  Christ  leavening  the 
world,  and  has  read  little  in  the  records  of 
pious  ages  even,  who  does  not  know  that  even 
in  the  Church  it  is  needful  to  sift  truth  from 
falsehood,  dead  from  living  truth. 

"If,  however,  a  claim  be  advanced  which 
forbids  such  a  use  of  reason  as  we  make  in 
regard  to  all  other  human  institutions,  viewing 
them  historically  with  reference  to  their  con- 
stant service  to  mankind  and  their  particular 
adaptation  to  a  changing  social  state  ;  if,  as  was 
the  case  with  the  doctrine  of  the  Divine  Right 
of  Kings,  the  Church  proclaims  a  commission 
not  subject  to  human  control,  by  virtue  of 
which  it  would  impose  creed  and  ritual,  and 
assumes  those  great  offices,  reserved  in  Puritan 
thought  to  God  only,  —  then  does  it  not  usurp 
the  function  of  the  soul  itself,  suppress  the 
personal  revelation  of  the  divine  by  taking 
from  the  soul  the  seals  of  original  sover- 
eignty, remove  God  to  the  first  year  of  our  era, 
relying  on  his  mediate  revelation  in  time,  and 


THE   RIDE  307 

thus  take  from  common  man  the  evidence 
of  religion  and  therewith  its  certainty,  and 
in  general  substitute  faith  in  things  for  the 
vital  faith?  If  the  voice  of  the  Church  is 
to  find  only  its  own  echo  in  the  inner  voice  of 
life,  if  its  evidences  of  religion  involve  more 
than  is  near  and  present  to  every  soul  by  virtue 
of  its  birth,  if  its  rites  have  any  other  reality 
than  that  of  the  heart  which  expresses  itself  in 
them  and  so  gives  them  life  and  significance, 
then  its  authority  is  external  wholly  and  has 
nothing  in  common  with  that  authority  which 
free  men  erect  over  themselves  because  it  is 
themselves  embodied  in  an  outward  principle. 
If  personality  has  any  place  in  the  soul,  if  the 
soul  has  any  original  office,  then  the  authority 
that  religion  as  an  organic  social  form  may 
take  on  must  lie  within  limits  that  reserve  to 
the  soul  its  privacy  with  God,  to  truth  an  un- 
borrowed  radiance,  and  to  all  men  its  possession, 
simple  or  learned,  lay  or  cleric,  through  their 
common  experience  and  ordinary  faculties  in 
the  normal  course  of  life.  Otherwise,  it  seems 
to  me,  personal  experience  cannot  be  the  begin- 
ning of  Christian  conviction,  the  true  available 
test  of  it,  the  underlying  basis  of  it  as  we  build 


308  HEART  OF  MAN 

the  temple  of  God's  presence  within  us,  and,  as 
I  have  called  it,  the  vitality  of  the  whole  matter. 
"  Within  these  limits,  then,  imposed  by  the 
earlier  argument,  what,  under  such  reserves 
of  the  great  principles  of  liberty,  democracy, 
and  justice  in  which  we  are  bred  and  which 
are  forms  of  the  cardinal  fact  of  the  value  of 
the  personal  soul  in  all  men,  —  what  to  us  is 
the  office  of  the  Church  ?  In  theology  it  de- 
fines a  philosophy  which,  though  an  interpre- 
tation of  divine  truth,  takes  its  place  in  the 
intellectual  scheme  of  theory  like  other  human 
philosophies,  and  has  a  similar  value,  differing 
only  in  the  gravity  of  its  subject-matter,  which 
is  the  most  mysterious  known  to  thought.  In 
its  specific  rites  it  dignifies  the  great  moments 
of  life  —  birth,  marriage,  and  death  —  with  its 
solemn  sanctions ;  and  in  its  general  ceremonies 
it  affords  appropriate  forms  in  which  religious 
emotion  finds  noble  and  tender  expression ;  es- 
pecially it  enables  masses  of  men  to  unite  in  one 
great  act  of  the  heart  with  the  impressiveness 
that  belongs  to  the  act  of  a  community,  and  to 
make  that  act,  though  emotional  in  a  multitude 
of  hearts,  single  and  whole  in  manifestation; 
and  it  does  this  habitually  in  the  life  of  its  least 


THE   RIDE  309 

groups  by  Sabbath  observances,  and  in  the  life 
of  nations  by  public  thanksgivings,  and  in  the 
life  of  entire  Christendom  by  its  general  feasts 
of  Christmas  and  Easter,  and,  though  within 
narrower  limits,  by  its  seasons  of  fasting  and 
prayer.  In  its  administration  it  facilitates  its 
daily  work  among  men.  The  Church  is  thus  a 
mighty  organizer  of  thought  in  theology,  of  the 
forms  of  emotion  in  its  ritual,  and  of  practical 
action  in  its  executive.  Its  doctrines,  however 
conflicting  in  various  divisions  of  the  whole  vast 
body,  are  the  result  of  profound,  conscientious, 
and  long-continued  thought  among  its  succes- 
sive synods,  which  are  the  custodians  of  creeds 
as  senates  are  of  constitutions,  and  whose  affir- 
mations and  interpretations  have  a  like  weight 
in  their  own  speculative  sphere  as  these  possess 
in  the  province  of  political  thought  age  after 
age.  Its  counsels  are  ripe  with  a  many-cen- 
turied  knowledge  of  human  nature.  Its  joys 
and  consolations  are  the  most  precious  inheri- 
tance of  the  heart  of  man.  Its  saints  open  our 
pathways,  and  go  before,  following  in  the  ways 
of  the  spirit.  Its  doors  concentrate  within  their 
shelter  the  general  faith,  and  give  it  there  a 
home.  Its  table  is  spread  for  all  men.  I  do 


310  HEART  OF  MAN 

not  speak  of  the  Church  Invisible,  but  mean  to 
embrace  with  this  catholicity  of  statement  all 
organizations,  howsoever  divided,  which  own 
Christ  as  their  Head.  Temple,  cathedral,  and 
chapel  have  each  their  daily  use  to  those  who 
gather  there  with  Christian  hearts ;  each  is  a 
living  fountain  to  its  own  fold.  The  village 
spire,  wherever  it  rises  on  American  or  English 
ground,  bespeaks  an  association  of  families 
who  find  in  this  bond  an  inward  companion- 
ship and  outward  expression  of  it  in  a  public 
habit  continuing  from  the  fathers  down,  sancti- 
fied by  the  memories  of  generations  gone,  and 
tender  with  the  hope  of  the  generation  to  come  ; 
and  this  is  of  measureless  good  within  such 
families  for  young  and  old  alike.  It  bespeaks 
also  an  instrument  of  charity,  unobtrusive, 
friendly,  and  searching,  and  growing  more  and 
more  unconfined ;  it  bespeaks  a  rock  of  public 
morality  deep-set  in  the  foundations  of  the 
state. 

"It  is  true  that  in  uniting  with  such  a 
Church,  under  the  specific  conditions  natural  to 
both  temperament  and  residence,  a  man  yields 
something  of  private  right,  and  sacrifices  in  a 
greater  or  less  degree  his  personality ;  but  this 


THE   RIDE  311 

is  the  common  condition  of  all  social  coopera- 
tion, whether  in  party  action  or  any  union  to 
a  common  end.  The  compromise,  involved  in 
any  platform  of  principles,  tolerates  essential 
differences  in  important  matters,  but  matters 
not  then  important  in  view  of  what  is  to  be 
gained  in  the  main.  The  advantages  of  an 
organized  religious  life  are  too  plain  to  be 
ignored ;  it  is  reasonable  to  go  to  the  very 
verge  in  order  to  avail  of  them,  both  for  a 
man's  self  and  for  his  efficiency  in  society,  just 
as  it  is  to  unite  with  a  general  party  in  the 
state,  and  serve  it  in  local  primaries,  for  the 
ends  of  citizenship ;  such  means  of  help  and 
opportunities  of  accomplishment  are  not  to  be 
lightly  neglected.  Happy  is  he  who,  christened 
at  the  font,  naturally  accepts  the  duties  de- 
volved upon  him,  and  stands  in  his  parents' 
place  ;  and  fortunate  I  count  the  youth  who, 
without  stress  and  trouble,  undertakes  in  his 
turn  his  father's  part.  But  some  there  are,  born 
of  that  resolute  manliness  of  the  fathers,  which  is 
finer  than  tempered  steel,  and  of  the  conscience 
of  the  mothers  which  is  more  sensitive  than 
the  bare  nerve,  —  the  very  flower  of  the  Puritan 
tradition,  and  my  heart  goes  out  to  them.  And 


312  HEART  OF  MAN 

if  there  be  a  youth  in  our  days  who  feels  hesi- 
tancy in  such  an  early  surrender  into  the  bosom 
of  a  Church,  however  broadly  inclusive  of  firm 
consciences,  strong  heads,  and  free  hearts ;  if 
primitive  Puritanism  is  bred  in  his  bone  and 
blood  and  is  there  the  large  reserve  of  liberty 
natural  to  the  American  heart ;  if  the  spirit  is 
so  living  in  him  that  he  dispenses  with  the  form, 
which  to  those  of  less  strenuous  strain  is  rather 
a  support ;  if  truth  is  so  precious  to  him  that 
he  will  not  subscribe  to  more  or  less  than  he 
believes,  or  tolerate  in  inclusive  statements 
speculative  and  uncertain  elements,  traditional 
error,  and  all  that  body  of  rejected  doctrine 
which,  though  he  himself  be  free  from  it, 
must  yet  be  slowly  uprooted  from  the  general 
belief;  if  emotion  is  so  sacred  to  him  that 
his  native  and  habitual  reticence  becomes  so 
sensitive  in  this  most  private  part  of  life  as 
to  make  it  here  something  between  God  and 
him  only ;  if  his  heart  of  charity  and  hand  of 
friendship  find  out  his  fellow-men  with  no  in- 
tervention ;  if  for  these  reasons,  or  any  of  them, 
or  if  from  that  modesty  of  nature,  which  is  so 
much  more  common  in  American  youth  than  is 
believed,  he  hesitates,  out  of  pure  awe  of  the 


THE  RIDE  313 

responsibility  before  God  and  man  which  he 
incurs,  to  think  himself  worthy  of  such  vows, 
such  hopes,  such  duties,  —  if  in  any  way,  being 
of  noble  nature,  he  keeps  by  himself,  —  let  him 
not  think  he  thereby  withdraws  from  the  life  of 
Christendom,  nor  that  in  the  Church  itself  he 
may  not  still  take  some  portion  of  its  great 
good.  So  far  as  its  authority  is  of  the  heart 
only,  so  far  as  it  has  organized  the  religious 
life  itself  without  regard  to  other  ends  and 
free  from  intellectual,  historical,  and  govern- 
mental entanglements  that  are  supplementary 
at  most,  he  needs  no  formal  act  to  be  one  with 
its  spirit;  and,  however  much  he  may  deny 
himself  by  his  self-limitation,  he  remains  a 
Christian." 

There  was  no  doubt  about  it ;  we  were  lost. 
The  faint  tracks  in  the  soil  had  long  ago 
disappeared,  and  we  followed,  as  was  natural, 
the  draws  between  the  slopes ;  and  now, 
for  the  last  quarter-hour,  the  grass  had  deep- 
ened till  it  was  above  the  wheels  and  to  the 
shoulders  of  the  ponies.  They  did  not  mind; 
they  were  born  to  it.  What  solitude  there  was 
in  it,  as  we  pulled  up  and  came  to  a  stand ! 


314  HEART  OF  MAN 

What  wildness  was  there !  Only  the  great 
blue  sky,  with  a  westward  dropping  sun  of 
lonely  splendour,  and  green  horizons,  broken 
and  nigh,  of  the  waving  prairie,  whispering 
with  the  high  wind,  —  and  no  life  but  ours  shut 
in  among  the  group  of  low,  close  hills  all  about, 
in  that  grassy  gulf!  The  earth  seemed  near, 
waiting  for  us;  in  such  places,  just  like  this, 
men  lost  had  died  and  none  knew  it;  half- 
unconsciously  I  found  myself  thinking  of 
Childe  Roland's  Tower, — 

"those  two  hills  on  the  right 
Couched,"  — 

and  the  reality  of  crossing  the  prairie  in  old 
days  came  back  on  me.  That  halt  in  the  cup 
of  the  hills  was  our  limit ;  it  was  a  moment  of 
life,  an  arrival,  an  end. 

The  sun  was  too  low  for  further  adventur- 
ing. We  struck  due  west  on  as  straight  a 
course  as  the  rugged  country  permitted,  think- 
ing to  reach  the  Looking-glass  creek,  along 
which  lay  the  beaten  road  of  travel  back  to 
mankind.  An  hour  or  two  passed,  and  we  saw 
a  house  in  the  distance  to  which  we  drove,  —  a 
humble  house,  sod- built,  like  that  we  had  made 


THE  BIDE  316 

our  nooning  in.  We  drove  to  the  door,  and 
called ;  it  was  long  before  any  answer  came ; 
but  at  last  a  woman  opened  the  door,  her  face 
and  figure  the  very  expression  of  dulled  toil, 
hard  work,  bodily  despair.  Alone  on  that 
prairie,  one  would  have  thought  she  would 
have  welcomed  a  human  countenance ;  but  she 
looked  on  us  as  if  she  wished  we  would  be 
gone,  and  hardly  answered  to  our  question  of 
the  road.  She  was  the  type  of  the  abandon- 
ment of  human  life.  I  did  not  speak  to  her; 
but  I  see  her  now,  as  I  saw  her  then,  with  a 
kind  of  surprise  that  a  woman  could  come  to 
be,  by  human  life,  like  that.  There  was  no 
one  else  in  the  house ;  and  she  shut  the  door 
upon  us  after  one  sullen  look  and  one  scant 
sentence,  as  if  we,  and  any  other,  were  naught, 
and  went  back  to  her  silence  in  that  green 
waste,  now  gilded  by  the  level  sun,  miles  on 
miles.  I  have  often  thought  of  her  since,  and 
what  life  was  to  her  there,  and  found  some 
image  of  other  solitudes  —  and  men  and  women 
in  them  —  as  expansive,  as  alienating  as  the 
wild  prairie,  where  life  hides  itself,  grows  de- 
humanized, and  dies. 

We  drove  on,  with  some  word  of  this ;  and, 


316  HEART  OF  MAN 

eating  what  we  had  with  us  in  case  of  famine, 
made  our  supper  from  biscuit  and  flask ;  and, 
before  darkness  fell,  we  struck  the  creek  road, 
and  turned  southward,  —  a  splendour  of  late 
sunset  gleaming  over  the  untravelled  western 
bank,  and  dying  out  in  red  bloom  and  the 
purple  of  slow  star-dawning  overhead;  and 
on  we  drove,  with  a  hard  road  under  us, 
having  far  to  go.  At  the  first  farmhouse  we 
watered  the  willing  ponies,  who  had  long  suc- 
cumbed to  our  control,  and  who  went  as  if 
they  could  not  tire,  steadily  and  evenly,  under 
the  same  strong  hand  and  kindly  voice  they  had 
felt  day-long.  It  was  then  I  took  the  reins 
for  an  easy  stretch,  giving  my  friend  a  change, 
and  felt  what  so  unobservably  he  had  been 
doing  all  day  with  wrist  and  eye,  while  he 
listened.  So  we  drove  down,  and  knew  the 
moon  was  up  by  the  changed  heavens,  though 
yet  unseen  behind  the  bluffs  of  the  creek  upon 
our  left ;  and  far  away  southward,  in  the  even- 
ing light,  lay  the  long  valley  like  a  larger  river. 
We  still  felt  the  upland,  however,  as  a  loftier 
air;  and  always  as,  when  night  comes,  nature 
exercises  some  mysterious  magic  of  the  dark 
hour  in  strange  places,  there,  as  all  day  long, 


THE  RIDE  317 

we  seemed  to  draw  closer  to  earth  —  not  earth 
as  it  is  in  landscape,  a  thing  of  beauty  and 
colour  and  human  kinship,  but  earth,  the  soil, 
the  element,  the  globe. 

This  was  in  both  our  minds,  and  I  had 
thought  of  it  before  he  spoke  after  a  long 
pause  over  the  briar  pipes  that  had  comraded 
our  talk  since  morning.  "  I  can't  talk  of  it 
now,"  he  said ;  "  it's  gone  into  me  in  an  hour 
that  you  have  been  years  in  thinking ;  but  that 
is  what  you  are  to  us."  I  say  the  things  he 
said,  for  I  cannot  otherwise  give  his  way,  and 
that  trust  of  love  in  which  these  thoughts  were 
born  on  my  lips;  all  those  years,  in  many  a 
distant  place,  I  had  thought  for  him  almost  as 
much  as  for  myself.  "You  knighted  us,"  he 
said,  "and  we  fight -your  cause,"  —  not  know- 
ing that  kingship,  however  great  or  humble,  is 
but  the  lowly  knights  made  one  in  him  who  by 
God's  grace  can  speak  the  word.  "  I  have  no 
doubt  it's  true,  what  you  say ;  but  it  is  differ- 
ent. I  expected  it  would  be ;  but  we  used  to 
speak  of  nature  more  than  the  soul,  and  of 
nature's  being  a  guide.  Poor  Robin,  I  remem- 
ber, began  with  that."  "There  is  a  sonnet  of 
Arnold's  you  know,"  I  answered,  "that  tells 


318  HEART  OF   MAN 

another  tale.  But  I  did  not  learn  it  from  him. 
And,  besides,  what  else  he  has  to  say  is  not 
cheerful.  Nothing  is  wise,"  I  interjected,  "  that 
is  not  cheerful." 

But  without  repeating  the  wandering  talk  of 
reality  with  its  changeful  tones,  —  and  how- 
ever serious  the  matter  might  be  it  was  never 
far  from  a  touch  of  lightness  shuttling  in  and  out 
like  sunshine,  —  I  told  him,  as  we  drove  down  the 
dark  valley,  my  hand  resting  now  on  his  shoul- 
der near  me,  how  nature  is  antipodal  to  the 
soul ;  or,  if  not  the  antipodes,  is  apart  from  us, 
and  cares  not  for  the  virtues  we  have  erected, 
for  authority  and  mercy,  for  justice,  chastity, 
and  sacrifice,  for  nothing  that  is  man's  except 
the  life  of  the  body  itself,  the  race-life,  as  if 
man  were  a  chemical  element  or  a  wave-motion 
of  ether  that  are  parts  of  physics.  "I  con- 
vinced myself,"  I  said,  "  that  the  soul  is  not  a 
term  in  the  life  of  nature,  but  that  nature  is 
in  it  as  a  physical  vigour  and  to  it  an  out- 
ward spectacle,  whereby  the  soul  acquires  a 
preparation  for  immortality,  whether  immor- 
tality come  or  not.  And  I  have  sometimes 
thought,"  I  continued,  "that  on  the  spiritual 
side  an  explanation  of  the  inequalities  of 


THE   RIDE  319 

human  conditions,  both  past  and  present,  may 
be  contained  in  the  idea  that  for  all  alike,  lowly 
and  lofty,  wretched  and  fortunate,  simple  and 
learned,  life  remains  in  all  its  conditions  an 
opportunity  to  know  God  and  exercise  the 
soul  in  virtue,  and  is  an  education  of  the 
soul  in  all  its  essential  knowledge  and  facul- 
ties, at  least  within  Christian  times,  broadly 
speaking,  and  in  more  than  one  pagan  civili- 
zation. Material  success,  fame,  wealth,  and 
power  —  birth  even,  with  all  it  involves  of 
opportunity  and  fate  —  are  insignificant,  if  the 
soul's  life  is  thus  secured.  I  do  not  mean  that 
such  a  thought  clears  the  mystery  of  the  differ- 
ent lots  of  mankind ;  but  it  suggests  another 
view  of  the  apparent  injustice  of  the  world 
in  its  most  rigid  forms.  This,  however,  is  a 
wandering  thought.  The  great  reversal  of  the 
law  of  nature  in  the  soul  lies  in  the  fact  that 
whereas  she  proceeds  by  the  selfish  will  of  the 
strongest  trampling  out  the  weak,  spiritual  law 
requires  the  best  to  sacrifice  itself  for  the  least. 
Scientific  ethics,  which  would  chloroform  the 
feeble,  can  never  succeed  until  the  race  makes 
bold  to  amend  what  it  now  receives  as  the 
mysterious  ways  of  heaven,  and  identifies  a  de- 


320  HEART  OF  MAN 

generate  body  with  a  dead  soul.  Such  a  code 
is  at  issue  with  true  democracy,  which  requires 
that  every  soul,  being  equal  in  value  in  view 
of  its  unknown  future,  shall  receive  the  benefit 
of  every  doubt  in  earthly  life,  and  be  left  as  a 
being  in  the  hands  of  the  secret  power  that 
ordained  its  existence  in  the  hour  when  nature 
was  constituted  to  be  its  mode  of  birth,  con- 
sciousness, and  death.  And  if  the  choice  must 
be  made  on  the  broad  scale,  it  is  our  practical 
faith  that  the  service  of  the  best,  even  to  the 
point  of  death,  is  due  to  the  least  in  the  hope 
of  bettering  the  lot  of  man.  Hence,  as  we  are 
willing  that  in  communities  the  noblest  should 
die  for  a  cause,  we  consent  1  o  the  death  of  high 
civilizations,  if  they  spread  in  some  Helleniza- 
tion  of  a  Roman,  some  Romanizing  of  a  barbaric 
world;  and  to  the  extinction  of  aristocracies,  if 
their  virtues  thereby  are  disseminated  and  the 
social  goods  they  monopolized  made  common 
in  a  people;  and  to  the  falling  of  the  flower  of 
man's  spirit  everywhere,  if  its  seeds  be  sown 
on  all  the  winds  of  the  future  for  the  blessing 
of  the  world's  fuller  and  more  populous  life. 
Such  has  been  the  history  of  our  civilization,  and 
still  is,  and  must  be  till  the  whole  earth's  sur- 


THE   RIDE  321 

face  be  conquered  for  mankind,  embodied  in  its 
highest  ideals,  personal  and  social.  This  is  not 
nature's  way,  who  raises  her  trophy  over  the 
slain ;  our  trophy  is  man's  laurel  upon  our 
grave.  So,  everywhere  except  in  the  physical 
sphere  of  life,  if  you  would  find  the  soul's  com- 
mands, reverse  nature's  will.  This  superiority 
to  nature,  as  it  seems  to  me,  this  living  in  an 
element  plainly  antithetical  to  her  sphere,  is  a 
sign  of  '  an  ampler  ether,  a  diviner  air. ' ' 

So  I  spoke,  as  the  words  came  to  me,  while 
we  were  still  driving  down  the  dark  valley,  in 
deeper  shadows,  under  higher  bluffs,  looking 
out  on  a  levelled  world  westward,  stretching 
off  with  low,  white,  wreathing  mists  and  moonlit 
distances  of  plains  beyond  the  further  bank. 
We  turned  a  great  shoulder  of  the  hills,  and 
the  moon  shone  out  bright  and  clear,  riding  in 
heaven ;  and  the  southward  reach  unlocked, 
and  gave  itself  for  miles  to  our  eyes.  At  the 
instant,  while  the  ponies  came  back  upon  their 
haunches  at  the  drop  of  the  long  descent 
ahead,  we  both  cried  out,  "  the  Looking-glass !  " 
There  it  was,  about  a  mile  away  before  and 
below  us,  as  plain  as  a  pikestaff,  —  a  silvery 
reach,  like  a  long  narrow  lake,  smooth  as  the 


322  HEART   OF   MAN 

floor  of  cloud  seen  from  above  among  moun- 
tains, silent,  motionless,  —  for  all  the  world  like 
an  immense,  spectral  looking-glass,  set  there 
in  the  half-darkened  waste.  It  was  evidently 
what  gave  the  name  to  the  creek,  and  I  have 
since  noticed  the  same  name  elsewhere  in  the 
Western  country,  and  I  suppose  the  phe- 
nomenon is  not  uncommon.  For  an  hour  or 
more  it  remained;  we  never  seemed  to  get 
nearer  to  it ;  it  was  an  eerie  thing  —  the 
earth-light  of  the  moon  on  that  side,  —  I  saw 
it  all  the  time. 

"The  difference  you  spoke  of,"  I  began,  with 
my  eyes  upon  that  spectral  pool,  "  is  only  that 
change  which  belongs  to  life,  dissolving  like 
illusion,  but  not  itself  illusion.  I  am  not 
aware  of  any  break ;  it  is  the  old  life  in  a 
higher  form  with  clearer  selfhood.  Life,  in 
the  soul  especially,  seems  less  a  state  of  being 
than  a  thing  of  transformation,  whose  successive 
shapes  we  wear ;  and  so  far  as  that  change  is 
self-determined,"  I  continued,  making  almost 
an  effort  to  think,  so  weird  was  that  scene 
before  us,  "  the  soul  proceeds  by  foreknow- 
ledge of  itself  in  the  ideal,  and  wills  the  change 
by  ideal  living,  which  is  not  a  conflict  with  the 


THE   RIDE  323 

actual  but  a  process  out  of  it,  conditioned  in 
almost  a  Darwinian  way  on  that  brain-futuring 
which  entered  into  the  struggle  for  animal  ex- 
istence even  with  such  enormous  modifying 
power.  In  our  old  days,  under  the  sway  of 
new  scientific  knowledge,  we  instinctively  saw 
man  in  the  perspective  of  nature,  and  then  man 
seemed  almost  an  after-thought  of  nature ;  but 
having  been  produced,  late  in  her  material  his- 
tory, and  gifted  with  foresight  that  distinguished 
him  from  all  else  in  her  scheme,  his  own  evolu- 
tion gathered  thereby  that  speed  which  is  so 
perplexing  a  contrast  to  the  inconceivable  slow- 
ness of  the  orbing  of  stars  and  the  building  of 
continents.  He  has  used  his  powers  of  pre- 
science for  his  own  ends ;  but,  fanciful  as  the 
thought  is,  might  it  happen  that  through  his 
control  of  elemental  forces  and  his  acquaintance 
with  infinite  space,  he  should  reach  the  point  of 
applying  prescience  in  nature's  own  material 
frame,  and  wield  the  world  for  the  better  ac- 
complishment of  her  apparent  ends,  —  that, 
though  unimaginable  now,  would  constitute  the 
true  polarity  to  her  blind  and  half-chaotic  mo- 
tions, —  chaotic  in  intelligence,  I  mean,  and  to 
the  moral  reason.  Unreal  as  such  a  thought  is, 


324  HEART  OF   MAN 

a  glimpse  of  some  such  feeling  toward  nature  is 
discernible  in  the  work  of  some  impressionist 
landscape  painters,  who  present  colour  and  at- 
mosphere and  space  without  human  intention, 
as  a  kind  of  artistry  of  science,  having  the  same 
sort  of  elemental  substance  and  interest  that 
scientific  truth  has  as  an  object  of  knowledge, 

—  a  curious  form  of  the  beauty  of  truth." 
We  spoke  of  some  illustrations  of  this,  the 

scene  before  us  lending  atmosphere  and  sugges- 
tion to  the  talk,  and  enforcing  it  like  nature's 
comment.  "  But,"  I  continued,  "  what  I  had  in 
mind  to  say  was  concerning  our  dead  selves. 
The  old  phrase,  life  is  a  continual  dying,  is 
true,  and,  once  gone,  life  is  death ;  and  some- 
times so  much  of  it  has  been  gathered  to  the 
past,  such  definite  portions  of  it  are  laid  away, 
that  we  can  look,  if  we  will,  in  the  lake  of 
memory  on  the  faces  of  the  dead  selves  which 
once  we  were."  Instinctively  we  looked  on 
the  mystic  glamour  in  the  low  valley,  as  on  that 
Lake  of  the  Dead  Souls  I  spoke  of.  I  went  on 
after  the  natural  pause,  —  I  could  not  help  it, 

—  "'I    was   a   different   man,    then,'   we    say, 
with  a  touch  of    sadness,    perhaps,    but   often 
with    better    thoughts,    and    always    with    a 


THE   RIDE  325 

feeling  of  mystery.  How  old  is  the  youth 
before  he  is  aware  of  the  fading  away  of 
vitality  out  of  early  beliefs?  and  then  he  feels 
the  quick  passing  of  the  enthusiasms  of  open- 
ing life,  as  one  cause  after  another,  one  hero, 
one  poet,  disclosing  the  great  interests  of  life, 
in  turn  engages  his  heart.  As  time  goes  on, 
and  life  comes  out  in  its  true  perspective,  one 
thing  with  another,  and  he  discovers  the  in- 
completeness of  single  elements  of  ardour  in  the 
whole  of  life,  and  also  the  defects  of  wisdom, 
art,  and  action  in  those  books  and  men  that 
had  won  his  full  confidence  and  what  he  called 
perfect  allegiance,  there  comes  often  a  moment 
of  pause,  as  if  this  growth  had  in  it  some- 
thing irrational  and  derogatory.  The  thinkers 
whose  words  of  light  and  leading  were  the 
precious  truth  itself,  the  poets  he  idolized,  the 
elders  he  trusted,  fall  away,  and  others  stand 
in  their  places,  who  better  appeal  to  his  older 
mind,  his  finer  impulses,  his  sounder  judgment ; 
and  what  true  validity  can  these  last  have  in 
the  end?  After  a  decade  he  can  almost  see 
his  youth  as  something  dead,  his  early  man- 
hood as  something  that  will  die.  The  poet, 
especially,  who  gives  expression  to  himself, 


826  HEART   OF   MAN 

and  puts  his  life  at  its  period  into  a  book, 
feels,  as  each  work  drops  from  his  hand,  that 
it  is  a  portion  of  a  self  that  is  dead,  though 
it  was  life  in  the  making ;  and  so  with  the 
embodiments  of  life  in  action,  the  man  looks 
back  on  past  greatness,  past  romance  ;  for  all 
life,  working  itself  out  —  desire  into  achieve- 
ment —  dies  to  the  man.  Vital  life  lies  always 
before.  It  is  a  strange  thought  that  only  by 
the  death  of  what  we  now  are,  can  we  enter 
into  our  own  hopes  and  victories ;  that  it  is 
by  the  slaying  of  the  self  which  now  is  that 
the  higher  self  takes  life;  that  it  is  through 
such  self-destruction  that  we  live.  The  inter- 
mediate state  seems  a  waste,  and  the  knowledge 
that  it  is  intermediate  seems  to  impair  its  value; 
but  this  is  the  way  ordained  by  which  we  must 
live,  and  such  is  life's  magic  that  in  each 
stage,  from  childhood  to  age,  it  is  lived  with 
trustfulness  in  itself.  It  is  needful  only,  how- 
ever much  we  outlive,  to  live  more  and  better, 
and  through  all  to  remain  true  to  the  high 
causes,  the  faithful  loves,  the  sacred  impulses, 
that  have  given  our  imperfect  life  of  the  past 
whatever  of  nobility  it  may  have ;  so  shall 
death  forever  open  into  life.  But,"  I  ended, 


THE  RIDE  327 

lifting  my  moist  eyes  toward  the  sweep  of  the 
dark  slopes,  "the  wind  blows,  and  leaves  the 
mystic  to  inquire  whence  and  whither,  the  wild 
shrub  blossoms  and  only  the  poet  is  troubled 
to  excuse  its  beauty,  and  happy  is  he  who  can 
live  without  too  much  thought  of  life." 

The  sheen  of  the  river  had  died  out,  and  the 
creek  was  only  a  common  stream  lit  with  the 
high  moon,  and  bordered  far  off  to  the  west 
with  the  low  indistinguishable  country.  We 
drove  in  silence  down  the  valley  along  that 
shelf  of  road  under  the  land.  The  broken 
bluffs  on  the  left  rose  into  immense  slopes  of 
rolling  prairie,  and  magnified  by  the  night  at- 
mosphere into  majesty,  heavy  with  deep  dark- 
ness in  their  folds,  stood  massive  and  vast  in 
the  dusk  moonlight,  like  a  sea.  Then  fell  on 
me  and  grew  with  strange  insistence  the  sense 
of  this  everlasting  mounded  power  of  the  earth, 
like  the  rise  and  subsidence  of  ocean  in  an 
element  of  slower  and  more  awful  might.  The 
solid  waste  began  to  loom  and  lift,  almost  with 
the  blind  internal  strength  of  the  whirl  of  the 
planet  through  space.  Deeper  into  the  shadow 
we  plunged  with  every  echoing  tread  of  the 
hoofs.  The  lair  of  some  mysterious  presence 


328  HEART  OF   MAN 

was  about  us, —  unshaped,  unlocalized,  as  in 
some  place  of  antique  awe  before  the  time  of 
temples  or  of  gods.  It  seemed  a  corporal  thing. 
If  I  stretched  out  my  hand  I  should  touch  it 
like  the  ground.  It  came  out  from  all  the 
black  rifts,  it  rolled  from  the  moonlit  distinct 
heights,  it  filled  the  chill  air,  —  it  was  an  en- 
velopment —  it  would  be  an  engulf  ment  —  horse 
and  man  we  were  sinking  in  it.  Then  it  was 
—  most  in  all  my  days  —  that  I  felt  dense  mys- 
tery overwhelming  me.  "  O  infinite  earth,"  I 
thought,  "  our  unknowing  mother,  our  unknow- 
ing grave !  "  —  "  What  is  it  ?  "  he  said,  feel- 
ing my  wrist  straighten  where  it  lay  on  his 
shoulder,  and  the  tremor,  and  the  hand  seeking 
him.  Was  it  a  premonition  ?  "  Nothing,"  I 
answered,  and  did  not  tell  him ;  but  he  began 
to  cheer  me  with  lighter  talk,  and  win  me  back 
to  the  levels  of  life,  and  under  his  sensitive  and 
loving  ways,  the  excitement  of  the  ride  died  out, 
and  an  hour  later,  after  midnight,  we  drove 
into  the  silent  town.  We  put  the  ponies  up, 
praising  them  with  hand  and  voice ;  and  then  he 
took  both  my  hands  in  his  and  said,  "  The  truest 
thing  you  ever  said  was  what  you  wrote  me, '  We 
live  each  others'  lives.' "  That  was  his  thanks. 


THE  RIDE  329 

O  brave  and  tender  heart,  now  long  lapped 
under  the  green  fold  of  that  far  prairie  in  his 
niche  of  earth  !  How  often  I  see  him  as  in 
our  first  days,  —  the  boy  of  seventeen  summers, 
lying  on  his  elbows  over  his  Thackeray,  read- 
ing by  the  pictures,  and  laughing  to  himself 
hour  after  hour ;  and  many  a  prairie  adven- 
ture, many  happy  days  and  fortunate  moments 
come  back,  with  the  strength  and  bloom  of 
youth,  as  I  recall  the  manly  figure,  the  sensi- 
tive and  eager  face,  and  all  his  resolute  ways. 
Who  of  us  knows  what  he  is  to  another?  He 
could  not  know  how  much  his  life  entered 
into  mine,  and  still  enters.  But  he  is  dead; 
and  I  have  set  down  these  weak  and  stam- 
mering words  of  the  life  we  began  together, 
not  for  the  strong  and  sure,  but  for  those 
who,  though  true  hearts,  find  it  hard  to  lay 
hold  of  truth,  and  doubt  themselves,  in  the 
hope  that  some  younger  comrade  of  life,  though 
unknown,  may  make  them  of  avail  and  find  in 
them  the  dark  leading  of  a  hand. 


BY 


LEWIS  EDWARDS  GATES, 

Assistant  Professor  of  English  in  Harvard  University. 

Cloth.    i2mo.    $1.50. 


FRANCIS  JEFFREY.  ASPECTS  OF  THE 

CARDINAL  NEWMAN.  ROMANTIC   PERIOD  OF 

MATTHEW   ARNOLD.  ENGLISH   LITERATURE 


"Professor  Gates  is  fortunate  in  his  subjects;  his 
subjects  are  fortunate  in  his  justly  discriminating 
appreciation.  The  reader  is  fortunate  in  his  illumi- 
nating treatment  of  these  notable  characters,  often 
misunderstood  and  disparaged,  —  the  brilliant  re- 
viewer, the  spiritual  rhetorician,  the  humanistic  critic. 
These  masterly  Studies  should  be  in  the  hands  of 
all  students  of  our  literature  in  this  century." 

—Outlook. 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


UCLA-Young  Research  Library 

PS3351    .H35 

y 


L  009  620   129  8 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001  284  639   o 


$1  Alt  MrtMAL  SCHOOL, 


